Class 
 
 Copyright Ni 
 
 COIYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
 Copyright. 1882. 
 By Thomas Y. Crowell o(/er.i, . . 
 A.' Fields, . 
 If of ton, . . 
 
 F. Spencer, 
 Phelps, . . 
 Michell, . 
 Cowper, . . 
 Dryden, 
 Sarqent, 
 
 H. k. White, 
 Bonar, . . 
 E. Young, . 
 
 I lor 
 
Xll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 All Earthly Joy Returns ill Pain Dunbar 20« 
 
 All in a Liifetime, Stedman, 539 
 
 All the Rivers, Phelps 416 
 
 All Things Once are Things Forever Lord Houghton, . . . 289 
 
 All Things Sweet when Prized, A. T. De Vere, ... 186 
 
 All Together, H. H. Brownetl, ... 57 
 
 Alone, H. H. Broivnell, ... 58 
 
 A Lost Chord, A. A. Procter, ... 441 
 
 A Lover's Prayer, . . . • Wyatt 677 
 
 A Love Song M. A. De Vere, ... 317 
 
 A March Violet Lazarus, 337 
 
 A Match, Sicinburne, .... 555 
 
 Ambition, O. Houghton, .... 285 
 
 Ambition, E. Young 683 
 
 Amends Richardson, .... 458 
 
 America, Dobell, 189 
 
 A Mussel Shell, Thaxter 587 
 
 A Name in the Sand Gould 238 
 
 An Author's Complaint, Pope, 765 
 
 And Thou hast Stolen a Jewel, Massey, 368 
 
 And Were That Best ? Gilder, 233 
 
 An Evening Reverie, Bryant, 80 
 
 An Epitaph, Prior, 773 
 
 Angelic Care, E. Spencer, .... .528 
 
 An Idle Poet, Robertson, 851 
 
 Annabel Lee, Poe. 423 
 
 An October Picture, Collier, 143 
 
 An Old Song Reversed, Stoddard, 540 
 
 An Open Secret Mason, 844 
 
 Answered, P. Cary, 127 
 
 Antony to Cleopatra Bytle, .'553 
 
 An Unthrift, Braddock, . . 
 
 An Untimely Thought T. B. Aldrich, 
 
 A Passionate Shepherd to his Love, Marloice, . . 
 
 A Petition to Time, B. W. Proctor, 
 
 A Picture, Street, . . . 
 
 A Picture of Pollen, Scott 
 
 Apollo Belvedere, W. 1!'. Gay, . 
 
 A Portrait, E. B. Browning, 
 
 Apostrophe to Ada, Byron, . . .' 
 
 Apiistrophe to Hope, Campbell, . . 
 
 Apostvoplie to Liberty, Addison, . . 
 
 Apostroplie to l^ight, Milton, 
 
 805 
 
 10 
 
 842 
 
 444 
 
 549 
 
 477 
 
 K20 
 
 63 
 
 105 
 
 117 
 
 3 
 
 381 
 
 Apostroplie to Popular Applause, Coirper, 157 
 
 Apostrophe to the Ocean, Byron, 100 
 
 Apostrophe to the Poet's Sister, }f'ordsn-o)'th, .... 6(i7 
 
 Apostrophe to the Sun Perriral 411 
 
 Apostrophe to the ^V^limslcal, Crabhe, 165 
 
 A Prayer in Sickness, li. W. Procter, . . . 445 
 
 April ir. Morris .390 
 
 A Protest, J. 'P. Fields, .... 226 
 
 A Question Answered, Machay, 365 
 
 Archie, ' /'. Cary, 125 
 
 A Request, Landor, .328 
 
 Argument, Tupper, 617 
 
 A Scene in the Highlands, Scott, 477 
 
 Ashes of Roses, E. Goodale, .... 237 
 
 Asking for Tears S. M. B. Piatt, ... 421 
 
 Ask Me uo More Carew, 118 
 
 Ask Me no More, Tennyson 57m 
 
 A Sleep, Prescott, 434 
 
 A Snow-Drop, Spoford, 531 
 
 A Snow-Storm, Eastman 208 
 
 A Song of Content, /. ■/. Riatt, .... 419 
 
 A Song of Doubt, Holland, 271 
 
 A Song of Faith, Holland, 272 
 
 Aspirations after the Infinite, Itenside, 7 
 
 Aspirations of Youth Montgomery, .... 384 
 
 A Spring Day, Jlloomjield, 40 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xm 
 
 As Slow our Ship, -^''T'» ' ' • • 
 
 Assurance, E.D. Brotiming, 
 
 A State's Need of Virtue, Thomson, . . 
 
 A Strip of Blue Larcom, . . 
 
 A Summer INIood, "Vr'A-'^' ' " ' 
 
 A Summer Morning McAai/ . . . 
 
 A Summer Noon at Sea, Mirgent, . . 
 
 A Sunset Picture, falconer, . . 
 
 At a Club Dinner, -■y"™'^' • • 
 
 At Divine Disposal, ^"!r"/.^^A • " 
 
 At Dawn, ^-f^- ■''.• f «'•*•' 
 
 A Tempest, ^''?.'%'^'''\,-- 
 
 At Home, f/./v -^o***"'' 
 
 A Thought, ^''^''''"' ■ • ■ 
 
 A Thought of the Past, Snrf/ent, . . 
 
 A Thrush in a Gilded Cage V.'7",' , '' ', ' ' 
 
 ■Vt Last Stoddard, . . 
 
 At the (3hurch-gate, rhackeray, . 
 
 At the Forge, t fl'n j\ ' " 
 
 At the Last, iruJ'u 
 
 At Sea, . H.H,Brownell, 
 
 At Sea Jenmson, . . 
 
 At Sea; Moulon, . . 
 
 Auf Wiedersehen, Loircll, . . . 
 
 Auld Robin Gray, JJarnard . . 
 
 Austerity of Poetry, ^^- ArnoUi, . 
 
 Autobiography, Jiarerjial, . . 
 
 Autumn, Hoplcins, . . 
 
 Autumnal Sonnet, AUmgImm, . 
 
 Autumn Song, Hutchmson, . 
 
 Avarice, . f; Spenser, . 
 
 A Voice from Afar, Netimaii, . . 
 
 Awaking of the Poetical Faculty, An/.vr, . . • 
 
 A Welcome to Alexandra, lenmjson, . . 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea Cunmngham, 
 
 A Wife, Bryden, . . 
 
 A Woman's Love, /"''.' V, ' / " 
 
 A Woman's Question, ^,- ^- ^ rocter, 
 
 A Woman's Way, Bunner, . . . 
 
 B. 
 
 Ballad, 
 
 Barbara, .... 
 
 Barbara Frietchie, 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic. 
 
 Battle of the Baltic, 
 
 Bay Billy, . . . 
 
 Beati llli, .... 
 
 Beatitude, . . . 
 
 Beauties of Morninj 
 
 Beautiful Death, . 
 
 Beauty's Immortality, 
 
 Becalmed at Eve, . 
 
 Beethoven, . . . 
 
 feefore Dawn, . . 
 
 Before the Bridal, 
 
 Before the Prime, 
 
 Behind the Mask, . 
 
 Belinda, .... 
 
 Bell and Brook, . 
 
 Bending between Me and the Taper, 
 
 Benevolence, 
 
 Be Quiet, Do, . 
 
 Betrayal, . . . 
 
 Beyond Recall, 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine, 
 
 Hood, . 
 
 A. Smifh, 
 
 J. G. Whittier, 
 
 Howe, 
 
 Campbell, 
 
 Gassaicaij, 
 
 Symonds, 
 
 A. T. Be Vere, 
 Beattiv, . . 
 Dry den, 
 Keats, . . 
 Clouqh, . . 
 Tlia'cter, . 
 Thompson . . 
 
 B. Taylor, . 
 Osgood, . . 
 Whitney, . 
 Pope, . . 
 
 S. T. Coleridge. 
 A. T. De Vere. 
 Sigourney, 
 Mackay, 
 Lanier, . 
 Bradley, 
 Xorton, . 
 
XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Birds and their Loves, Thomson, 503 
 
 Blessed are They that Mourn, Bryant, 72 
 
 Books, Crabbe, 1^0 
 
 Bosom Sin, Herbert 265 
 
 Boyhood, AJlston 1!) 
 
 Break, Break, Break, Jennysmi, 584 
 
 Breatlies there the Man, *«>« 478 
 
 Breathings of Spring, •?'''"""*'', : , ' • • • ^^^ 
 
 Broken Friendships S. I . Coteriih/e. . . . 13(i 
 
 Bugle Song Tennyson, 577 
 
 Burial of Sir John ISIoore, Wolfe. G65 
 
 Burns Halltck, 249 
 
 But Heaven, O Lord, 1 cannot Lose, E.D. Proctor, . . . 44K 
 
 Bvroirs Remarkable Prophecy Byron 103 
 
 By tlie Autumn Sea, Hayne, 250 
 
 By the Dead, LuiglUon 324 
 
 c. 
 
 Calling the Dead, 
 
 Calm and Tempest at Night on Lake Leman, 
 
 Calm on the Bosom of our God, 
 
 Carailoc, the Bard of the Cymrians, 
 
 S. M. B. Piatt. ... 421 
 
 Byron, 101 
 
 Hevians, 263 
 
 E. B. Lytton 839 
 
 705 
 4 
 547 
 840 
 584 
 206 
 286 
 639 
 431 
 308 
 
 Careless Content, Byrom, . . . 
 
 Cato's Soliloquy Addison, . . 
 
 Cayuga Lake Street, . . . 
 
 Changes, B. B. Lytton, . 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson, . . 
 
 Charity Dryden, . . 
 
 Charity ('• Haub\ . . 
 
 Despite All, Drummond , 
 
 Destiny T. B. Aldrich, 
 
 Die down, O Dismal Day I). Gray, 
 
 Different Sources of Funeral Tears, E. Young, 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier, Bolcer, '. 
 
 Discontent, Thaxter, 
 
 Disdain Returned Carcir, . 
 
 Distance no Barrier to the Soul, Cowley, . 
 
 Divorced, Lord Houghton, 
 
 Doctor Drollhead's Cure, Anonymous, 
 
 Dolcino to Margaret, Kingsley, . 
 
 Domestic Happiness, Campbell, . 
 
 Door and Window, //.A'. Do/-r, 
 
 Dorothy Q., Holmes, . . 
 
 Dow's Flat, Harte, . . 
 
 Dreams li. Browning, 
 
 Drifting, Bead, . . 
 
 Driving Home the Cows, K. P, Osgood, 
 
 Dullness, Pope, . . . 
 
 Dying, BucharMU, 
 
 E. 
 
 Early Death and Fame, M. Arnold, 
 
 Early Rising Saxe, . . . 
 
 Early Summer, Hopkins, . 
 
 Easter-day, .• O. fVilde, . 
 
 Easter Morning Mace, . . 
 
 East London, M. Arnold, 
 
 Effect of Contact with the World E. Young, . 
 
Effort the Gauge of Greatness E. Young 680 
 
 Egyptian Serenade Curtis, 181 
 
 Elegy in a ('(umlrv Churchyartl, T. Gray 240 
 
 End of all Earthly Glory Shakespeare, .... 487 
 
 Endurance, . . " Allen, 14 
 
 Entered into Rest Bolton, 805 
 
 Enviable Age, S. Johnson, . . . . 30K 
 
 Epistle to Augusta Byron 95 
 
 Epigram, f!- T. ColerUhje, . . 711 
 
 Epitaph Hervey, 1^68 
 
 Epitaph D. Jonson 310 
 
 Epithalamium, BrainanI, 
 
 Equinoctial Whitney, 
 
 Equipoise, Preston, 
 
 Estrangement through Trifles, Moore, 385 
 
 Evelyn Hope B. Broivniny. ... 69 
 
 Evening, Croly 178 
 
 Evening, Wordswortli 675 
 
 Evening'Prayer at a Girls' School, Hemans, 26:2 
 
 Evening Song Lanier, 328 
 
 636 
 434 
 
 Eventide, ."'. Burbulge, 
 
 Every Day, Allen, . 
 
 Excessive Praise or Blame, Pope, 
 
 Excess to be Avoided, Thomson, 
 
 Exhortation to Marriage, 
 
 Exile of Erin, 
 
 External Impressions Dependent on the Soul's Moods, 
 
 Extract from " A Reverie in the Grass," 
 
 Extracts from Miss Biddy's Letters 
 
 ... 809 
 
 ... 17 
 
 ... 433 
 
 ... 596 
 
 Bogers, 461 
 
 Campbell 112 
 
 Crahbe, 167 
 
 MacLay 365 
 
 Moore 760 
 
 479 
 739 
 740 
 606 
 
 485 
 
 F. 
 
 Faciebat, Abbey 2 
 
 Fair and Fifteen Bedden, 848 
 
 Fair and Unworthy Ayton. 798 
 
 Faith, . .- Kenible, 318 
 
 Faith in Doubt, Tennyson, 575 
 
 Faith in Unfaith, Scott, . . 
 
 Faithless NeUie Grav, Hood, . . 
 
 Faithless Sally Brown, Hood, . . 
 
 Falling Stars, Trench, . . 
 
 False Appearances, Shalcespenre 
 
 False Terrors in View of Death E. Yoking, 682 
 
 Fame, B. B. Lytton, . . . 753 
 
 Fancy, Keats 311 
 
 Fantasia Spofford, 530 
 
 Fare Thee Well, Byron, 92 
 
 Farewell, Symonds, 559 
 
 Farewell, Thaxter, 586 
 
 Farewell, Life, Hood 283 
 
 Farewell of the Soul to the Body Sigourney 499 
 
 Farewell, Renown, Dobson, 190 
 
 Farewell to Nancy, Burns 84 
 
 Fatherland and IVIother Tongue, Lover, 748 
 
 Father Molloy Lover, 748 
 
 Fear no More, Shakespeare, .... 488 
 
 Fear of Death Shakespeare 487 
 
 February Morris, 389 
 
 Few in Many, B. B. Lytton, ... 752 
 
 Field Flowers, Campbell, ill 
 
 Fingers, Ao//, ••, ,• 
 
 First Appearance at the Odeou J. T. Fields, 
 
 Five, : J. C. B. Don 
 
 Florence Nightingale, E. Arnold, 
 
 Florence Vane ^- J'- Cooke, 
 
 Flower and Fruit, Thomas, 
 
 Flowers without Fruit, 
 
 836 
 227 
 195 
 2^* 
 151 
 853 
 Newman, 396 
 
Folly of Litigation, Crahbe, 164 
 
 For a Servant, Wither, ...... 6C3 
 
 For a' Tliat and a' That, JIurns, 82 
 
 For a Widower or Widow, Wither, 662 
 
 Forbearance, Emerson, 215 
 
 Forget Me Not, Sarr/ent, 469 
 
 Foreliiiowletltte Undesirable, Tupper, 620 
 
 Forever, . " O'Jieilh/, 400 
 
 Forever Unconfessed, Lord Houghtoti, . . . 288 
 
 Forever with the Lord, Montgomerij, .... 385 
 
 For his Child's Sake, Tennyson, 577 
 
 For my own Monument, Prior, 772 
 
 France Goldsmith, .... 236 
 
 Friend after Friend Departs, Montgomery, .... 384 
 
 Friendship, Simms, ,503 
 
 Friendsliip in Age and Sorrow, Crahbe, 168 
 
 Fritz and I C. F. Adams, .... 686 
 
 From " Absalom " Willis, 654 
 
 From " An Ode to the Rain," S. T. Coleridyc, . . . 710 
 
 From " A Preacher," Webster, 62;» 
 
 From a " Vision of Spring in Winter," Swinburne, 552 
 
 From a Window in Chamouni, Moulion, 846 
 
 From " Childhood," Faiu/han, 622 
 
 From " Christmas Autiphones," Sivinburne, .... 556 
 
 From " Dejection," S. T. Coleridtje, . . ., 136 
 
 From " Eloisa to .-ibelard," Pope,. . .'. . . . 429 
 
 From Far Marston 843 
 
 From Friend to Friend, Stimonds, 560 
 
 From " Intimations of Immortality," Wordsivorth, .... 670 
 
 From " Lines composed in a Concert Room," .... S.T.Coleridge,. . . 710 
 
 From " Ij^ies to a Louse," Burns, 698 
 
 From " Making Poetry," Harergal 826 
 
 From ]\lire to Blossom, S. Longfclloic, . . . 346 
 
 From " No .\ge is Content," Earl of Surrey, . . . 551 
 
 From " Nothing to Wear," Jl'. A. Butler, . . . . 701 
 
 From " Poverty," Wither 662 
 
 From " Rules and Lessons," Vaiighaii, 024 
 
 From " St. Mary Magdalen," Vau'ghuii 622 
 
 From " The Christian Politician," Vavghun 623 
 
 From " The Cock and the Fox," JJri/den 722 
 
 From the " Elixir," Herbert, 827 
 
 From the " Exequy on his Wife," King, 836 
 
 From the Flats, Lanier, 328 
 
 From the '' Lay of Horatius," Macaulay 354 
 
 From " The Ode on Shakespeare," Sprague 534 
 
 From " The Sensitive Plant," Shelley, 493 
 
 From "The Thief and the Cordelier," Prior 774 
 
 From "To a Lady with a Guitar," Shelley, 495 
 
 G. 
 
 Ganging to and Ganging frae, E. Coo!:, l.W 
 
 Garden Song, Tennyson, 580 
 
 Genius, Byron, 99 
 
 George Eliot, Phelps, 416 
 
 Glasgow A. Smith 505 
 
 Gleaner's Song, Bloomjield, 43 
 
 God's Patience, Preston, 435 
 
 God, the only Just Judge, Burns, 85 
 
 Goethe (^Memorial Verses) M. Arnold, .... 25 
 
 Go, Forget me, Wolfe 665 
 
 Go not, Happy Day, Tennyson, 581 
 
 Good Counsel, Chaitrcr, 811 
 
 Good Life, Long Life, " . . . Johnson 310 
 
 Good Counsel of Polonius to Laertes, Shal.'es/ieare, .... 485 
 
 Good Morrow, Heyirood, 268 
 
 Goodness E. B. Browning, . . 688 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Good News, 
 
 GoodNiglit, 
 
 Gray, 
 
 Greece, 
 
 Green Things Growing, . . . 
 Grief for the Loss of the Dead, 
 
 Guardian Spirits, 
 
 Gulf-weed, 
 
 Klmhall, 31f> 
 
 Hhelh'ii, 4!)5 
 
 Ticknor, 854 
 
 JJyirm, 105 
 
 t'raik, 170 
 
 Quarles 451 
 
 Rogers, 464 
 
 Fenner, 224 
 
 H. 
 
 Hallowed Ground, 
 
 Hand in Hand with Angels 
 
 Hannah Binding Shoes, 
 
 Happiness 
 
 Happiness in Little Things of the Present, .... 
 
 Happy are They, 
 
 Hark "to the Shouting Wind 
 
 Harmosan, 
 
 Harsh Judgments, 
 
 Harvesting, 
 
 Harvest Time, 
 
 Health Necessary to Happy Life, 
 
 Heart Essential to Genius 
 
 Heart-glow, 
 
 Heart Oracles 
 
 Heart Superior to Head, 
 
 Heaven near the Virtuous, 
 
 Heliotrope 
 
 Helvellyn, . . . 
 
 Her Conquest, 
 
 Hereafter, 
 
 Heroes, 
 
 Her Roses 
 
 Hester, 
 
 Hie Jacet, 
 
 Hidden Joys, 
 
 Hidden Sins 
 
 Highland Mary, 
 
 Hints of Pre-existence, 
 
 History of a Life, 
 
 Hohenlinden, 
 
 Homage, 
 
 Home and Heaven 
 
 Home, Wounded, 
 
 Hope, 
 
 Hope for All . . 
 
 Htipe in Adversity, 
 
 How are Songs Begot and Bred ? . . . 
 
 How Cyrus laid the Cable, 
 
 How Delicious is the Winning, 
 
 How the Heart's Ease tirst Came, 
 
 How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 
 
 How to Deal with Common Natures 
 
 Hudson River, 
 
 Humanity, 
 
 Husband to Wife, 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise in the Valley of Chamouui, . . 
 
 Hymn for Anniversary Marriage Days, 
 
 Hymn from " Motherhood," 
 
 Hymn to Trust, 
 
 Hymn to Contentment, 
 
 Hymn to Cynthia, 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers, . 
 
 Campbell -108 
 
 Larcom, 332 
 
 Larcnm, 329 
 
 Mackaij, 757 
 
 Trench, C05 
 
 A. T. I)e Vere, . . . 185 
 
 Tim roil, 855 
 
 Trcvch CO(i 
 
 Fabcr, 21G 
 
 B/oomfield, .... 41 
 
 Thomson 592 
 
 Th'nni/so7i, 579 
 
 S. T.' Coleridge, . . . 138 
 
 Withers 662 
 
 Hopkins, 829 
 
 Holmes, 279 
 
 Parnell, 407 
 
 Jonson, 310 
 
 H. Smith, 510 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. 
 
 I Count my Time by Times that I Meet Thee Gilder, 232 
 
 Ideals Fmocett, 219 
 
 1 Die for tliv Sweet Love, li. W. Procter, . . . 446 
 
 If M. n. Smith, .... 513 
 
 It it :\Iust Be, n. Gray, S22 
 
 If tliis Be All, A. Bronte, 53 
 
 If 'J'hou Wert by my Side, Hcber, 258 
 
 If We Had but a Day, Dickinson, 188 
 
 If You Love me L. Clark, 128 
 
 I in Thee and Thou in Me, Cranch, 176 
 
 Ilka Blade o' Grass Keps its ain Drap o' Dew, .... Ballanfinc, .... 28 
 
 111-choseu Pursuits, Tupper, 614 
 
 111-ehristened, Tnpper, 618 
 
 II Penseroso, Milton 376 
 
 Imagined Reply of Eloisa, Howe, 2S9 
 
 I'm Growing Old, Saxe 474 
 
 Imitation, BicharcUon, .... 459 
 
 Immortality M. Arnold 24 
 
 I'm not a Single Man, Hood 737 
 
 Impressions du Matin O. Wilde, 648 
 
 In a Graveyard, . Hay, 253 
 
 In a Letter Jennison 8.32 
 
 In an Hour, Perry, 415 
 
 In Arabia J. B. Bensel, .... 38 
 
 In Autumn, Boker, 804 
 
 In a Year R. Browning, .... 68 
 
 In Blossom Time Coolbrith 153 
 
 Incompleteness, A. A. Procter, . . . 443 
 
 Independence, Thomson, 
 
 I Never Cast a Flower away. 
 
 V. B. /Soiifheij, . . . .515 
 
 In Extremis, J. T. Fields, 
 
 Influence Coolidge, 814 
 
 In (iartield's Danger, Brackett ,52 
 
 Ingratitude, , , " , Shakespeare, .... 484 
 
 In Kittery Churchyard Thaxter 589 
 
 In Memory of Barry Cornwall, Swinbvrne, .... 5.52 
 
 In no Haste, Landor, 327 
 
 In November, P. U. Johnson. . . . 8.34 
 
 In Praise of his Lady Love Compared with all Others, , £arl of' Svrreij, . . . 551 
 
 In School Days J. G. Uniittier, ... 640 
 
 Ins<:-riiition, Byron, 94 
 
 Insisniticant Existence, Watts, 8,55 
 
 InStiuiigle E. B.Browning, . . 67 
 
 Insufficiency of the World, E. Young 680 
 
 In the Dark, G. Arnold 23 
 
 In the Meadows, B. Taylor, 566 
 
 In the Quiet of Nature, Cotton, 154 
 
 In View of Death M. Collins, .... 144 
 
 Invocation, Riordan 850 
 
 I prithee Send me back my Heart, Suckling, 5.50 
 
 I Kemember, I Kemember, Hood, '. 280 
 
 Irwin Russell, Btmner, 808 
 
 I Saw from the Beach, Moore, 387 
 
 Is it all Vanity E. B. Lytton, .... 838 
 
 Isolation, E. Gray, 240 
 
 I Wandered by the Brookside, Lord Houghton, . . . 287 
 
 I will Abide in thine House, Whitney, 638 
 
 I will not Love, . Landor, 328 
 
 J. 
 
 Jasmine Hai/ne, . . 
 
 Jeanie Morrison, Mothenvell, 
 
 Jerusalem the Golden, „ Massey, . . 
 
 257 
 392 
 367 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my Soul, 
 
 Wesley, 632 
 
 John Anderson my Jo, Burns, 84 
 
 John Gilpin Cowper, 711 
 
 Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle Hay, 731 
 
 John Day, Hoocl, 735 
 
 Joy to be Shared, £■ Young. , . . • . 978 
 
 Judge Not, A. A. Procter, . . . 440 
 
 Judgment in Studying it, Dryden, 205 
 
 July Jackson, 831 
 
 June, Bryant, 73 
 
 June, Loiveil, 351 
 
 Just Judgment, Pope, ...... 432 
 
 Justice Richardson 459 
 
 Justice the Regenerative Power, E. B. Lytton 839 
 
 K. 
 
 Keep Faith in Love, Miller, 374 
 
 Kilcoleman Castle, Joyce, 834 
 
 Kiudness tirst Known in a Hospital, E. B. Browning, , . 66 
 
 L. 
 
 Labor Lord Houghton, . . . 286 
 
 Laborare est Orare, . , F. S. Osgood, . . . 402 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere • . . Tennyson 583 
 
 Lagrimas, . - Hay 255 
 
 Lake George, Hi/lard, 269 
 
 L'Allegro, Milton, 375 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrims Hemans, 263 
 
 LarvtB • Whitney, 638 
 
 Last Allen, 15 
 
 Last Lines, E. Bronte, 54 
 
 Last Verses, M. Collins 144 
 
 Last Verses, Motherwell, .... 391 
 
 Last Words S. M. B. Piatt, ... 419 
 
 Late Summer, Hojjkins, 829 
 
 Late Valuation, Tapper, 620 
 
 Laugliter and Death, Blunt, 803 
 
 Launcli thy Barli, Mariner, C. B. Soiitltey, . . . 514 
 
 Laura, my Darling, Stedman, 535 
 
 Learning is Labor, Crabhe 164 
 
 Left Behind, Moulton, 845 
 
 Letters, Tapper, 615 
 
 Life, Barbauld, 28 
 
 Life Bryant 76 
 
 Life, A. Cary, 119 
 
 Life Crabbe, 168 
 
 Life B. W. Procter, ... 444 
 
 Life, Tapper 620 
 
 Life a Victory, B. B. Lytton, .... 841 
 
 Life from Death, Holland 273 
 
 Life in Death, Savage, 472 
 
 Life's Mystery, A. Cary, 122 
 
 Life's Mystery Stoa-e, 544 
 
 Life's Tlieatre Shah/speare 484 
 
 Life's Vicissitudes, Shnlrspean, .... 487 
 
 Ijife will be Gone ere I have Lived C. Broate 54 
 
 Light, Bourdillon, .... 50 
 
 Liglit on the Cloud Snroge 473 
 
 Liglit Sliining out of Darltness, Cawjicr, 1.57 
 
 Like a Laverock in the Lift, Jcun Ingelow, . . . 307 
 
 Lilce as a Nurse, raugluin, 626 
 
 Lines on a Prayer-book, Crashaw. 816 
 
 Lines to a Comic Author S. T. Coleridge, . . . 710 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Listening for God, Gannett, 
 
 Litany to the Holy Spirit, Herrick, 
 
 Little Billee, Thackeray, 
 
 Little Breeches, Hay, . . . 
 
 Little Gitfen, Ticknor, 
 
 228 
 266 
 783 
 730 
 854 
 
 Little Jerry, the Miller, Saxe, 474 
 
 562 
 245 
 
 61 
 252 
 
 59 
 807 
 428 
 603 
 111 
 836 
 817 
 
 56 
 468 
 
 Little Kindnesses Talfourd, 
 
 Little Martin Craghan, Gu'stafson, . . . 
 
 Little Mattie E. B. Broitning, 
 
 Lone Mountain Cemetery, Bret Harte, . . 
 
 Long Ago, . . ' H. H. Broivnell, . 
 
 Longfellow, Bunner, .... 
 
 Lord Byron, Potlok, .... 
 
 Lord, Many Times I am Aweary, Trench 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter, Campbell, . . . 
 
 Lord, when 1 Quit this Earthly Stage, Watts, . . 
 
 Loss Af. B. Dodge, . . 
 
 Losses Brown, .... 
 
 Lost Days, I). G. kossetti, . 
 
 Love, Botta, 50 
 
 Love, S. Butler, 87 
 
 Love Byron 97 
 
 Love S. T. Coleridge, ... 141 
 
 Love, Scott, 478 
 
 Love, Tennyson, 579 
 
 Love Bettered by Time, Hood, 284 
 
 Love, Hope, and Patience in Education, S. T. Coleridge, ... 140 
 
 Love in Age, Tilton, . . ' . . . . 598 
 
 Lovely Mary Donnelly, AUingham, .... 686 
 
 Love me if I Live, B. ]V. Procter, . . . 444 
 
 Love of Country and of Home, Montgomery , . 
 
 Love of the Country, Dloomfield, 
 
 Love Reluctant to Endanger, H. Taylor, . . 
 
 Love's Reward, Bourdillon, 
 
 Love shall Save us all, Thaxter, . . 
 
 Love's Immortality B. Southey, 
 
 Love's . Jealousy, Gilder, 
 
 Love's Sonnets, 
 
 Love's Philosophy, Shelley, 
 
 Love, the Retriever of Past Losses, Shakespeare, . 
 
 Love, the Solace of Present Calamity, Shakespeare, . 
 
 Love Unalterable, Shakespeare, . 
 
 Low Spirits, Faber, . . . 
 
 Lucy, Wordsicorth, . 
 
 Lyric of Action, Hague, . . . 
 
 . 382 
 
 . 42 
 
 . 570 
 
 . 50 
 
 . 588 
 
 . 517 
 
 . 233 
 
 Bokcr, 46 
 
 " "■ . 492 
 
 . 489 
 
 . 488 
 
 . 489 
 
 . 217 
 
 . 672 
 
 . 827 
 
 M. 
 
 Madonna Mia, O. Wilde, .."... 647 
 
 Maiden and Weathercock H. W. Longfellow, . . 343 
 
 ISIaid of Athens, Byron 94 
 
 INlajor and Minor, Curtis, 181 
 
 Make thine Angel Glad, C. !<'. Bates, .... 31 
 
 Making Peace, S. M. B. Piatt, ... 420 
 
 Man Pope, 430 
 
 INIan and Woman, Tennyson 578 
 
 Manhood, Simms 503 
 
 ^ - - -- _ jjj. 
 
 . 461 
 
 . 85 
 
 . 12 
 
 . 831 
 
 . 389 
 
 . 248 
 
 . 12 
 
 . 643 
 
 Man's Dislike to be Led, Crabbe, . . . 
 
 Man's Restlessness, Pagers, . . . 
 
 Man was Made to Mourn Burns, . . . 
 
 Maple Leaves T. B. Aldrich, 
 
 March, Jackson, . . 
 
 March Morris, . . . 
 
 Marco Bozzaris, Halleck, . . 
 
 Masks T. B. Aldrich, 
 
 Maud .Muller J. G. Whittier, 
 
 May, 
 
 Cheney, 812 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 May, Mason 844 
 
 May and the Poets Hunt, 301 
 
 May ill Kingston Abbey, 2 
 
 May to April, Freneau, 2l!8 
 
 ^Measure for Measure Spofford, 531 
 
 Melancholy, Hood, 27!) 
 
 Melrose Abbey by Moonlight, t<<-ott, 478 
 
 Memorial Hall, ." i'mnch, 174 
 
 Memory, Goldsmith 237 
 
 Memory lioyers, 463 
 
 Mene, ^leiie, Si/monds, 558 
 
 Mental Beauty Akcnside, 7 
 
 Mental Supremacy, Tiipj>er, 616 
 
 Mercy ' Sha/cespeare, .... 486 
 
 Mercy to Animals, Coicper, 160 
 
 Merit beyond Beauty, Pope, 768 
 
 Middle Life He dd enrich, .... 258 
 
 Midnight Brinvnell, 58 
 
 Midsummer Saxton 852 
 
 Midsummer, Troivbridge, .... 609 
 
 Midwinter Trowbridge, .... 608 
 
 Mine Own, Leland, 339 
 
 Miracle CooUdge, 814 
 
 Misspent time, A. De Verv, .... 184 
 
 Monterey, Hoffman, 270 
 
 More Poets Yet, Dobson, 722 
 
 Morning and Evening by the Sea, J. T. Fields, .... 225 
 
 Move Eastward, Haiipy Earth, Tennyson 585 
 
 Music in the Air, Curtis 181 
 
 Music when Soft Voices Die Shelley 492 
 
 Mutability, Shelley, 495 
 
 My Ain Countree, Demarest, 183 
 
 My Answer, Boker, 804 
 
 My Child Pierpont, 422 
 
 My Comrade and I, , Trowbridge 613 
 
 My Held is like to Rend, Willie Motherwell 391 
 
 My Life is like the Summer Kose, E. H. Wilde, .... 649 
 
 My Little Boy that Died, Craik 172 
 
 My Love is on her Way, Baillie, 27 
 
 My Mind to me a Kingdom is, Dyer, 819 
 
 My Nasturtiums, Jackson, 832 
 
 Mv Old Straw Hat, F.Cook, 150 
 
 Mv own Song, Spofford 531 
 
 My Playmate, J. G. W'hittier, ... 646 
 
 My Psalm, J. G. Whittier, ... 641 
 
 My Saint, Moutton, 845 
 
 My Slain, Pealf, 457 
 
 My Window Ivv, M. M. Bodge, . . . 191 
 
 N. 
 
 Kameless Pain, T. B. Aldrich, 
 
 Names S. T. Coleridge, 
 
 Kantasket, Clemmer, . . 
 
 Katura Naturans, Clough, . . . 
 
 Nature, H. IV. Longfellow, 
 
 Nature, Very, . . . 
 
 Nature's Joy Inalienable, Thomson, . . 
 
 Nature's Lesson, Preston, . . 
 
 Nature's Need, Sir H. Taylor, 
 
 Nature's Question and Faith's Answer, R. Soulhey, . 
 
 Nature's Keverence, J. G. Whittier, 
 
 Nearer Home, P. Cary, . . 
 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, S. F. Adams, . 
 
 Nearing the Snow-line, Holmes, . . . 
 
 Nearness, Boker, . . . 
 
 New Life, New Love Symonds, . . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 New Worlds 
 
 Night, 
 
 Night 
 
 Night Storm, 
 
 No Life Vain, 
 
 No More, 
 
 No Ring 
 
 No Spring without the Beloved, 
 Not at Ail, or All in All, . 
 Not for Naught, .... 
 Nothing but Leaves, . . 
 
 November, 
 
 Now and Afterwards, . . 
 Now Lies the Earth, . . . 
 Number One 
 
 O. P. Lathrop, 
 Lazaru.f, 
 J!. Soutlwij, 
 
 Simma, . . 
 H. Coler-idcje, 
 Cloucjh, . . 
 Car 11, . . 
 Shaht'speare, 
 Tenni/.'ioii, . 
 E. Eiliott, . 
 Alcennan, . 
 H. Coleridge, 
 Craik, . . 
 Tennyson, . 
 Hood,. . . 
 
 o. 
 
 Ode, Emerson, 
 
 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton T. Gray, 
 
 Ode on Art, Sprac/ue, 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson, 
 
 Ode on the Poets, . . 
 
 Ode on tlie Spring, 
 
 Ode to a Mountain Oak, 
 
 Ode to an Indian Coin, „ 
 
 Ode to Disappointment H. K. White, 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale, Keats, 
 
 W. Collins, .... 148 
 
 Keats, 311 
 
 T. Gray, 233 
 
 Bolcer 43 
 
 Leyden .339 
 
 . . 6.3.5 
 
 . . 312 
 
 Ode to Evening. ~ IV. Collins 147 
 
 Ode to Simplicitv, W. Collins, .... 144 
 
 Ode to the Brave, IV. Cnllins 14.5 
 
 Olf Labrador, Collier, 142 
 
 Of Myself, Cowley, 145 
 
 Oft in the Stillv Night, 3Ioore, 386 
 
 Oh ! Watch vou Well bv Daylight, Lorer 347 
 
 Oh ! Why should the Spirit of Mortal be proud?. . . Knox, 322 
 
 O Lassie ayont the Hill, Macdonald, .... 359 
 
 Old, Hoyt, 296 
 
 Old Age and Death, Waller, 628 
 
 Old Fiiniiliar Faces Lamh 325 
 
 O may I -loin the Choir Invisible G. Eliot, 2nj 
 
 On a Child, Rogers, 461 
 
 Only a Curl, E. B. Browninq, ... 65 
 
 On a Girdle Waller, 628 
 
 On a Sermon against Glory, Akenside, 4 
 
 On Completing iny Thirty-Sixth Year, Byron 107 
 
 On Doves and Serpents Quarles, 451 
 
 One by One, A. A. Proeter, . . . 440 
 
 One Presence Wanting Byrnn, 104 
 
 One Lesser Jov Coolidf/e, 81.", 
 
 One Word is too often Profaned, Shelley, 49(1 
 
 On his Blindness, MlHoti 379 
 
 Only, Haijeman, 247 
 
 Only Waiting, Marc 360 
 
 On l\lan Quarles 451 
 
 On One who Died in :May, C.Cook, 812 
 
 On Reaching Twenty-Three, Milton, 380 
 
 On Reading Chapman's Homer, Kents, 314 
 
 On Resignation, Chatterton, .... 810 
 
 On Sin, Quarles, 451 
 
 On the Blutf. , . • Hay 254 
 
 On the Death of .John Rodman Drake Hailed: 251 
 
 On the Headland B. Taylor, 564 
 
 On the Hillside, Synunuls, .559 
 
 On the Lake Webster, 631 
 
 On the Life of Man Qnarles 451 
 
 On the Reception of Wordsworth, at Oxford, .... Talfourd 56ii 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 On the Picture of a Child Tired of Play, WiUh, . . 
 
 OntheKighi, Holland, . 
 
 On the Koad, Hutchinson, 
 
 On the Shortness of Life, ('n)rle.ij, . . 
 
 On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey, Beaumont, . 
 
 On Time, Miltnn, . . 
 
 On True and False Taste in Music W. Col Unit, 
 
 Other Mothers, Butts, . . 
 
 O Thou who Dry'st the Mourner's Tears, Moorr, . . 
 
 Our Homestead, P. Cari/, 
 
 Our Neighbor, Spoford, 
 
 Our Own, Snnr/stcr, 
 
 . . 651 
 
 . . 275 
 
 . . 8.S8 
 
 . . 156 
 
 . . 37 
 
 . . 374 
 
 . . 145 
 
 . . 89 
 
 . . 386 
 
 . . 127 
 
 . . 530 
 
 . . 468 
 
 Ours, Preston, 434 
 
 Outof the Darli, Shurtleff, 852 
 
 Out of the Deeps of Heaven, Stoddard, 542 
 
 Outre-niort Jcnnison, 832 
 
 O ye Tears Mackay 364 
 
 Pain and Pleasure, Stoddard 542 
 
 Pairing-time Anticipated, Coirper 716 
 
 Palmistry Spoffbrd, 530 
 
 225 
 478 
 459 
 604 
 685 
 479 
 622 
 399 
 135 
 194 
 64 
 370 
 472 
 171 
 169 
 67 
 729 
 336 
 677 
 171 
 
 Poor Andrew, E. Elliott, 211 
 
 Power of Poesy A. T. ])e '/ere, . . . 184 
 
 Power of the World, E. Younii, 683 
 
 Prayer, Montf/omeri/, .... 383 
 
 President Garfield, //. IF. Lomifvllow, . . 837 
 
 Press on, Benjamin, .".... 799 
 
 Procrastination Tupper 621 
 
 Procrastination and Forgetfuluess of Death, .... K. Younij, 677 
 
 Progress in Denial Simms, '.' 501 
 
 Prometheus, Bjirini 01 
 
 Proposal, /;. '/'ai/lor, 565 
 
 Prospice, /?. Brmrninf/, . ... 68 
 
 Providence, Vaur/Iian 623 
 
 Pure and Happy Love Thomson, 591 
 
 Purity G. Hout/hfon, .... 286 
 
 Pursuit and Possession, T. B. Aldrich, . ■ . 11 
 
 Passage from the Prelude A. Fields, 
 
 Paternal Love, Scott, . . . . 
 
 Patience, llichardson, . . 
 
 Patience, Trencli, . . . . 
 
 Pat's Criticism, C.F.Adams,. . 
 
 Payments in Store, Scott, . . . . 
 
 Peace, Vaui/han, . . . 
 
 Peace and Pain, O'lt'eilly, . . . 
 
 Penance of the Ancient Mariner, S. T. Colerideje. . 
 
 Peradventure, J. C. B. Dorr, 
 
 Perfect Love, E. B. Broivnin//, 
 
 Persia Mitchell, . . . 
 
 Pescadero Pebldes, Sarar/e, . . . . 
 
 Philip my King Craik, . . . . 
 
 Philosophy Crabhe 
 
 Picture of" Marian Erie, E. B. Broicninej, 
 
 Plain Language from Truthful James, Bret Ilarte, . . 
 
 Pleasant Prospect, La:iarus, . . . 
 
 Pleasure Mixed with Pain, W>iatt, . . . . 
 
 Plighted Craik 
 
 Q. 
 
 Quaclt, Crabhe, 71s 
 
 Quakerdom Halpine 726 
 
 Quebec at Sunrise, Street, 545 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Quebec at Sunset, 
 Questionings, 
 Quince, .... 
 
 Street 545 
 
 Hedge, ^59 
 
 Praed TTI 
 
 K. 
 
 Railroad Rhyme, . . . 
 
 Rain, 
 
 Rattle the Window, . 
 Reading the Milestone, 
 Real Estate, .... 
 Reason an aid to Revelation, 
 Rebecca's Hvmn, .... 
 Recognition of a Congenial Spirit, 
 Recompense, . . . 
 Recompense, . . . 
 Recompense, . . . 
 Recompense, . . . 
 Reconciliation, . . 
 Refuge from Doubt, 
 
 Regret, 
 
 Relaxation, . . . 
 Remedial Sutfering, 
 Remember, . . . 
 Remember, . . . 
 
 Repose, 
 
 Remembrance, . . 
 Remorse, .... 
 Rencontre, . . . 
 Reporters, . . . 
 Requiescat, . . . 
 Reverie, .... 
 
 Resigning, 
 
 Richard's Theory of the Mind, 
 Riches of a Man of Taste, 
 Ring out, Wild Bells, . 
 Ripe Grain, . . 
 Rock me to Sleep, 
 Rondel, .... 
 Rory O'More, . 
 Rosaline, . . . 
 Rose Aylmer, 
 
 Rubles 
 
 Rule, Britannia, 
 
 Saxe, . . 
 Burleigh, . 
 Stoddard, . 
 J. J. Piatt, 
 Trowbridge, 
 Cotrley, . . 
 Scott, . . 
 Moore, . . 
 Annan, . . 
 Simms, . . 
 Pit/er. . . 
 Tilt'm, . . 
 Ten nyson, . 
 Miller, . . 
 O. Houghton, 
 H. Taijlor, . 
 P. Soufheg, 
 Lazarus, 
 C. G. Possetti 
 TItomson, . 
 E. Bronte, . 
 Hay, . . . 
 T. B. Aldrich, 
 Crahbe, . 
 O. Wilde, 
 Thaxter, 
 Craik, 
 Prior, 
 Akenside, 
 Tennyson, 
 Goodale, 
 Allen, . 
 Pay, . . 
 Lorer, 
 Lodge, . 
 Landor, . 
 Landor, . 
 Thomson, 
 
 s. 
 
 Sabbath Morning • 
 
 Sadness Born of Beauty, . . . 
 
 Sailor's Song, 
 
 Saint Peray ■ 
 
 Sands of Dee, 
 
 Saturday Afternoon, . . . , 
 Scene after a Summer Shower, 
 Schnitzerl's Philosopede, . . . 
 Scorn not the Sonnet, . . . , 
 
 Sea-way, 
 
 Secrets, 
 
 Seeking the Mayflower, . . 
 
 Self, 
 
 Self-dependence, 
 
 Selfishness of Introspection, . 
 Serve God and be Cheerful, . 
 
 She and He, 
 
 Shelling Peas, 
 
 Grahame, . . 
 Trench, . . . 
 G. P. Lathrop, 
 T. W. Parsons, 
 Kingsley, . . 
 Willis, . . ■ 
 Korton, . . . 
 Lfland, . . . 
 Wordsworth, . 
 Hutchinson, . 
 Wheeler, . . 
 Stefbnan, . . 
 Symonds, . ■ 
 M. Arnold, 
 E. B. Broivning, 
 Keicell, . . . 
 E. Arnold, 
 Cranch, ... 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Sheridan's Ride, Bead, 453 
 
 She's Gane to Dwell in Heaven, Cviniingham, . . . . 180 
 
 She Walks in Be-.iuty Byron, 93 
 
 She "Was a Phantom" of Delight, Wordsicorth, .... 674 
 
 Silent Mothers, Helen lUch, .... 849 
 
 Silent Songs, Stoddard 542 
 
 Silhouettes, O. U'Ude 648 
 
 Since All that is not Heaven must Fade, A'eb/e 16 
 
 Since Yesterday Lord Hounhton, . . . 286 
 
 Sir Marniaduke's Musings, Tilion, .' 601 
 
 Sir Walter Scott at Pompeii, Landon, 327 
 
 Sleep, T. li. Aldrich, ... 11 
 
 Sleep Bijron, 97 
 
 Sleep and Death, -^'i'.'/, 222 
 
 Sleep the Detractor of Beauty, Crablie, 163 
 
 Sly Lawyers, . Crahbc, 718 
 
 Snatches of Mirth in a Dark Life, JkcUtie, 27 
 
 Soft, Brown, Smiling Eves, Craiicli 176 
 
 ■ " ■ '" ■ '"■ ■ " "" ' 446 
 
 501 
 634 
 323 
 806 
 509 
 416 
 513 
 
 Softly Woo away her Breath, B. 11". Procter. 
 
 Solace of the Woods, Siwvi.'i, . . 
 
 Solitude, H. K. White, 
 
 Somebody's Darling Lacoste, . . 
 
 Somebody's Mother, Brine, . . 
 
 Somebody Older, F. Smith, . 
 
 Some Day of Days, Pernj, . . 
 
 Sometime, M. li. Smith, 
 
 Somewhere, Snxe, 474 
 
 Song Camphell 115 
 
 Song Campbell, 707 
 
 Song, H. Colerid(/e, .... 134 
 
 Song, r. G'. Jloss'etli, . . . 465 
 
 Song from "Right," Harergal, 825 
 
 Song of a Fellow-worker, O'Shavf/hnessi/, . . . 404 
 
 Song of Egla, Brooh:s, ...... 55 
 
 Song of Saratoga Sa.ve, 776 
 
 Song of the Hempseed E. Cook 149 
 
 Song of the Ugly Maiden, E. Cool:, 151 
 
 Song on May Morning, Milton, 378 
 
 Songs of Seven, Ingeloir, 301 
 
 Songs Unsung, Stoddard 541 
 
 Sonnet, O. Wilde, 648 
 
 Sonnet Composed on Leaving England, Keats 311 
 
 Sonnets from " Intellectual Isolation," Si/monds, 561 
 
 Sonnet on Chillon, Bi/rnn 93 
 
 Sonnets to Edgar Allan Poe, IVhilman, 856 
 
 Sonnet to Hope Williams, 650 
 
 Sonnet to Sleep Sidney 499 
 
 Sorrows of Werther, Thach-raij, .... 783 
 
 Soul of my Soul Saryent, 469 
 
 Soul to Soul, Tennyson, 575 
 
 Sound Sleep, CO. liossetti, . . . 465 
 
 Spectacles, or Helps to Read, Byron, 706 
 
 Spf nt and Misspent, A. Car;/, 121 
 
 Spiritual Feelers Tuppe'r 615 
 
 Sipiandered Lives, B. 'I'ai/lor, 566 
 
 Stanzas from " Hymn on the Nativity," Milton, 379 
 
 Stanzas from " Ciisa Wappy," Moir 381 
 
 Stanzas from " .Service," J. T. Troicbridge, . . 612 
 
 Stanzas from " Song of the Flowers," Hunt • . . 299 
 
 Stanzas from the " Tribute to a Servant," Hou-e, 290 
 
 Stanzas from "The True Use of Music," Wesley, 6.32 
 
 Stanzas from " The Schoolmistress," Shenstone, 496 
 
 Stanzas in Prospect of Death, Burns, 83 
 
 Stay, Stay at Home, my Heart, //. W. Lon(il'ellou\. . 342 
 
 Still Tenanted Hiram Pieli 849 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Grave, Preston, 435 
 
 Storm at Appledore, Lowell, 3.52 
 
 Strength through Resisted Temptation, Holland 273 
 
 Strive, Wait, and Pray, A. A. Procter, . . . 443 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XXV 11 
 
 strong Son of C4oil, Tennyson, .... 574 
 
 Submission to Supreme Wisdom, I'ojx' 430 
 
 Success Alone Seen Landon, 326 
 
 Sufficient unto the Day, Sani/sfcr, 46S 
 
 Summer Dawn at Loch Katrine, Scott, 4T6 
 
 Summer Longings, McCarthy, oO!) 
 
 Summer Kain Bennett, 38 
 
 Sum up at Night, Hcrljcrf, 264 
 
 Sundays, J'au". Gray, 822 
 
 Wisdom, E. Young, 684 
 
 Wisdom's Prayer, Johnson, 308 
 
 Wishes for Obscuritv, Crowne, 179 
 
 Wishes of Youth, ." Blanchard, .... 801 
 
 Wit, Pope, 432 
 
 Withered Roses, Winter, 660 
 
 Without and Within, Loivell, 751 
 
 Woodbines in October, C. F. Bates, .... 31 
 
 Woodman, Spare that Tree, Morris, 388 
 
 Words for Parting Clement, 129 
 
 Work and Worship W. A. Butler,. . . . St 
 
 Worship, Richardson 458 
 
 Worth and Cost Holland 273 
 
 Wouldn't you Like to Know, Snxe, 4i.5 
 
 Would Wisdom for Herself be Wooed, Patmore, 411 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Wounds Fawcett, . 
 
 Wrecked in the Tempest, Falconer, . 
 
 Written at an Inn at Henlej', Shenstone, . 
 
 Written on Sunday Morning, JR. Southeij, 
 
 220 
 217 
 498 
 519 
 
 Yawcob Strauss, Adams 685 
 
 Ye Mariners of England, Campbell, 110 
 
 Yield not, thou Sad One, to Sighs, Lover, 318 
 
 Young Sophocles taking the Prize A. Fields, 223 
 
 Youth and Age^ S. T. Coleridge, . . 140 
 
 Youth's Agitations, M. Arnold, .... 24 
 
mDEX OF AUTHOKS AKD TITLES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 2 
 2 
 
 1 
 
 ABBEY, HENRY. 
 
 b. Kondout. N Y., July 11, 1842. 
 Faciebat ....... 
 
 May in Kingston .... 
 
 The Caliph's Magnanimity 
 
 ADAINIS, CHARLES FOLLEN, 
 b. Dorchester, Mass., April 21, 1842. 
 
 Fritz and I , . . 686 
 
 Pat's Criticism 685 
 
 Yawcob Strauss 685 
 
 ADAIMS, SARAH FLOWER, 
 b. Cambridfre, Enp;., Feb. 22, 1895. 
 d. London, Aug. 14, 1840. 
 
 Nearer, My God, to Thee ... 3 
 
 ADDISON, JOSEPH. 
 
 b. Milston, Wiltshire, Eng., May 1, 1672. 
 
 d. London, Eng., June 17, I7ia. 
 
 Apostrophe to Liberty ^ . . . 3 
 Cato's Soliloquy 4 
 
 AIKEN, BERKELEY. 
 
 d. 18G4. 
 
 Uncrowned Kings 797 
 
 AKENSIDE, :NrARK. 
 
 b. Newcastle-upon-Tvne, Nov. 9, 1721. 
 d. June 27, 1770. 
 
 Aspirations after the Infinite 
 (Pleasures of the Imagination) 
 
 Mental Beauty (P/easi«rs of the 
 Imagination^ 7 
 
 On a Sermon against Glory . . 4 
 
 Riches of a Man of Taste {Pleas- 
 ures of the Imagination) . . 6 
 
 The Development of Poetic 
 Creation (Pleasures of the 
 Imagination) 5 
 
 AKERMAN, LUCY EVELINA. 
 
 h. Feb. 21„ 1816. 
 
 d. Providence, R. I., Feb. 21, 1874. 
 
 Nothing but Leaves 8 
 
 ALDRICH, JAMES. 
 
 b. Orange Co., N. Y., July 10. 1810. 
 d. New York, Oct., 18o6. " 
 
 A Death-bed 
 
 ALDRICH, THOilAS BAILEY, 
 b. Portsmouth, N. H., Nov. 11, 18.36. 
 
 After the Rain 
 
 An Untimely Thought . . 
 
 Destiny JjJ 
 
 Maple Leaves 1- 
 
 Masks 12 
 
 Nameless Pain ly 
 
 Pursuit and Possession .... 11 
 
 Rencontre H 
 
 Sleep 11 
 
 The Ballad of Baby Bell ... 8 
 
 The Faded Violet H 
 
 The Rose Jp 
 
 To any Poet ......•• 12 
 
 Unsung 10 
 
 ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES. 
 
 b. about 1830, England. 
 
 The Burial of Moses .... 12 
 
 ALFORD, HENRY, 
 b. London, 1810. d. 1871. 
 
 The Aged Oak at Oakley. . 
 
 13 
 
 ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS. 
 
 b. Strong, i\Ie., Oct. 9, 18.32. 
 
 Lives Greenville, N. J. 
 
 Endurance . 14 
 
 Every Day H 
 
 j^j^g^ 15 
 
 Rock me to Sleep 15 
 
 Until Death 16 
 
 Where the Roses Grew .... 15 
 
 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM, 
 b. Ballyshannon, Ireland, 1828. 
 Lives in London. 
 
 Autumnal Sonnet 18 
 
 Lovely Mary Donnelly .... 686 
 The Touchstone 18 
 
 ALLSTON, WASHINGTON. 
 
 b. in Waccamaco, S. C.,.Nov^5. 1779. 
 
 d. Cambridge, Mass., July 9, 1873. 
 
 19 
 
 Boyhood 
 
 ANNAN, ANNIE R. 
 
 b. Mendon, N. Y., Sept. 23, 1847. 
 
 Recompense 797 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 The Eggs and the Horses . . . 
 Dr. DroUhead's Cure .... 
 APPLETON, THOMAS GOLD, 
 b. Boston, March 3, 1812. 
 
 To Rouse, the Artist .... 
 To William Lloyd Garrison, after 
 the war 1^ 
 
 793 
 796 
 
 19 
 
XXXVlll 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 AENOLD, EDWIN. 
 
 
 BATES, CHARLOTTE FISKE. 
 
 
 b. London, Eng., JS.32. 
 
 
 b. New York, Nov. 30, 1838. 
 
 
 After Death in Arabia : . . . 
 
 21 
 
 
 
 Florence Nightingale .... 
 
 22 
 
 Consecration 
 
 31 
 
 She and He 
 
 20 
 
 Make thine Angel Glad . . . 
 
 31 
 
 
 
 The Old Year and the New . . 
 
 31 
 
 ARNOLD, GEORGE. 
 
 
 To Victoria 
 
 31 
 
 b. New York, June 24, \SM. 
 
 d. Strawberry Farms, N. J., Nov. 9, 1865. 
 
 
 Woodbines in October .... 
 
 31 
 
 
 
 
 Cui Bono 
 
 23 
 23 
 
 BATES, FLETCHER, 
 b. New York, Nov. 19, 1831. 
 
 
 In the Dark 
 
 
 ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 
 
 
 The Clergyman and the Peddler 
 
 687 
 
 b. Latcham, Eng., Dec. 24, 1S22. 
 
 
 The Dead Bee 
 
 32 
 
 
 
 The Two Birds 
 
 32 
 
 Austerity of Poetry 
 
 25 
 
 
 
 Early Death and Fame .... 
 
 25 
 
 BATES, KATHERINE LEE. 
 
 
 East London 
 
 24 
 
 b. Falmouth, Mass., Aug. 12, 1859. 
 
 
 Goethe (Mi'tnorial verses) . . . 
 
 25 
 
 
 
 Immortality 
 
 24 
 
 The Organist 
 
 32 
 
 Self-dei;enilence 
 
 25 
 
 
 Youth's Agitations 
 
 24 
 
 BAYLY, THOMAS HAYNES. 
 
 
 AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 
 
 
 b. Bath, England, 1797. d. 1839. 
 
 
 b. Scotland, 1570. d. 1G38. 
 
 Fair and Unworthy 
 
 798 
 
 The first Gray Hair 
 
 Why don't the Men Propose . . 
 
 33 
 688 
 
 
 
 BEATTIE, JAMES. 
 
 
 BAILEY, PHILIP JAxMES, 
 
 
 b. Kincardineshire, Scotland, Oct. 20, 1735. 
 
 
 b. Nottingham, Eng., 1816. 
 
 
 d. Aug. 18, 1803. 
 
 
 The True Measure of Life . . 
 
 26 
 
 Beauties of Morning {The Min- 
 strel) 
 
 Death and Resui-rection {The 
 
 34 
 
 BAILLIE, JOANNA. 
 
 
 b. Lanarksliire, Scotland, in 1702 
 
 
 Minstrel) 
 
 35 
 
 d. at Hampstead, near London, Feb. 23. 1851. 
 
 
 The Ascent to Fame ( The Min- 
 
 
 My Love is on her Way . . . 
 
 27 
 
 strel) , . . . 
 
 34 
 
 Snatches of Mirth in a Dark Life 
 
 27 
 
 The Charms of Nature (The 
 
 
 The Kitten 
 
 26 
 
 Minstrel) 
 
 34 
 
 The Worth of Fame 
 
 26 
 
 BEERS, ETHELINDA ELLIOTT. 
 
 
 BALLANTINE, JAMES. 
 
 
 b. 1827. d. 1879. 
 
 
 b. Edinbur'^h Scotland 1808. d. 183.3. 
 
 
 The Picket Guard 
 
 .35 
 
 Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain 
 
 
 Weighing the Baby 
 
 36 
 
 drap o' dew 
 
 28 
 
 BEAUMONT, FRANCIS. 
 
 
 BARBAULD, ANNA LETITIA. 
 
 
 b. Leicestershire, 1586. d. March 9, 1616. 
 
 
 b. Leicestershire, Eng., June 20, 1743. 
 d. near London, March 9, 1825. 
 
 Life 
 
 
 On the Tombs in Westminster 
 Abbey 
 
 37 
 
 28 
 
 BENJAMIN PARK. 
 
 
 The Death of the Virtuous . . 
 The Sabbath of the Soul . . . 
 
 28 
 798 
 
 b. Demerara, Aug. 14, 1809 
 d. New York, Sept. 12, 1864. 
 
 
 
 
 Press on 
 
 779 
 
 BARKER, DAVID. 
 
 
 
 b. Exeter, Me., 181G. d. 1874. 
 
 
 BENNETT, WILLIAIM COX. 
 
 
 The Covered Bridge 
 
 29 
 
 b. Greenwich, Eng., 1820. Lives London. 
 
 
 BARLOW, JOEL. 
 
 
 Summer Rain 
 
 The Seasons 
 
 38 
 37 
 
 b. Reading, Conn., March 24, 175.5. 
 
 
 
 
 d. Zarnowickc, Poland, Dec. 22, 1812. 
 
 
 BENSEL, ANNIE BERRY. 
 
 
 To Freedom 
 
 29 
 
 b. New York City, Aug. 2, 1855. 
 
 
 
 
 The Lady of the Castle . . . 
 
 800 
 
 BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 
 
 
 
 
 b. Fifeshire, Scotland, Dec. 8, 1750. 
 
 
 BENSEL, JAMES BERRY. 
 
 
 d. May 8, 1825. 
 
 
 b. New York City, Sept. 30, 1859. 
 
 
 Auld Robin Gray 
 
 30 
 
 Ill Arjibiti 
 
 38 
 
 BARR, MARY A. 
 
 BLACKIE, JOHN STUART. 
 
 
 b. Glasgow, Scotland. 
 
 
 b. Glasgow, Scotland, 1809. 
 
 
 White Poppies 
 
 798 
 
 The Hope of the Heterodox . . 
 
 800 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 BLAKE, WILLI AIM. 
 
 b. London, Nov. 28, 17.37. 
 The Tiger . . . 
 
 BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. 
 
 b. Cumberland, Eng., \~U. d. 1794. 
 What ails this Heart o' Mine 
 
 BLANCHAKD, LAMAN. 
 
 b. Great Yarmoutli Eug , May 15, 180.3. 
 d. Feb. 15, 1845. 
 
 40 
 
 Hidden Joys 
 
 The Eloquent Pastor Dead 
 Wishes of Youth .... 
 
 BLOOMFIELD. ROBERT. 
 
 BOWLES, WILLIAM LISLE. 
 
 d. Aug. 12, 182S. b. Northamptonshire, Sept. 24, 1762. 
 
 d. April 7, 18.5U. 
 
 The Greenwood .51 
 
 To Time 51 
 
 BOYLE, A. B. 
 
 Widowed 805 
 
 BRACKETT, ANNA C. 
 
 b. Boston, 1836. 
 gQj j In Gartield's Danger 52 
 
 802 I BRADDOCK, E:\IILY A. 
 ^Ol d. 1879. 
 
 An Unthrift 805 
 
 b. Honjngton, Enj 
 d. Aug. I'J, 1823. 
 
 ;., Dec. 3, 1706. 
 
 A .Spring Day (The Farmer's 
 
 £0,1/) 
 
 A Tempest (The Farmer's Boy) . 
 
 Gleaner's Song 
 
 Harvesting ( Tlie Farmer's Boy) 
 Love of the Country .... 
 To his Mother's Spindle . . . 
 
 BLUNT, WILFRED (?) (Proteus). 
 
 A Day in Sussex 
 
 Cold Comfort 
 
 Laughter and Death 
 
 The Two Highwaymen .... 
 To One who would make a Con- 
 fession . - 
 
 BOKER, GEORGE HENRY, 
 b. Philadelphia, 1824. 
 
 Awaking of the Poetical Fa- 
 culty 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier 
 
 In Autumn (Book of the Dead). 
 
 Love Sonnets 
 
 My Answer (BooJc of iJie Dead) . 
 Nearness ( The Boolcof the Dead) 
 Ode to a Mountain Oak . . . 
 To England 
 
 BOLTON, SARAH K. 
 
 Entered into Rest 
 
 BONAR, HORATIUS. 
 
 b. Edinburgh, Scotland, 1808. 
 A Little While . . . 
 The Inner Calm . . 
 
 803 
 803 
 803 
 
 805 
 
 48 
 
 BOSTWICK, HELEN LOUISE BARRON, 
 b. Charlcstown, N. II., 1826. 
 
 Urvasi 49 
 
 BOTTA, ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH. 
 
 b. Bennington, Vt, 1820. 
 
 Love 50 
 
 The Lesson of the Bee .... 50 
 
 BOUBDILLON, FRANCIS W. 
 b. Woolbedding, Eng., 1852. 
 
 Light 50 
 
 Love's Reward 50 
 
 The Difference 51 
 
 BRADLEY, MARY E. 
 
 b. Easton, JIaryland, Nov 29, 1835. 
 Beyond Recall .... 
 
 BRAINARD, JOHN G C 
 
 b. New London, Conn , Oct. 21, 1796 
 d. New London, Conn , Sept 26, 1828 
 
 Epithalamium 
 
 BRANCH, MARY BOLLES. 
 
 b. Brooklyn, N. Y , 1841. 
 
 The Petrified Fern . . 
 
 .53 
 
 BRINE, MARY D. 
 
 Somebody's jNIother 806 
 
 BRONTE;, ANNE. 
 
 b. Yorkshire, Eng , 1820. d May, 1849. 
 If this be All 
 
 .53 
 
 BRONTE, CHARLOTTE. 
 
 b. Thornton, Yorkshire, Eng , April 21, 
 1816. d. March 31, 1855. 
 
 Life wnM be Gone ere I Have 
 Lived 54 
 
 BR0NT:&, EMILY. 
 
 b. Yorkshire, Eng., 1818. d. Dec , 1848. 
 
 Last Lines 54 
 
 Remembrance .54 
 
 BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN. 
 
 b. Jledford, Mass., 1795. 
 d. Cuba, Nov. 11,1845. 
 
 Song of Egla (From Zophiel) 
 The Marriage of Despair . . 
 
 BROWN, FRANCES. 
 
 b. Ireland, June 16, 1818. d 186i 
 
 Losses 56 
 
 BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. 
 
 b. Providence, R. I., Feb 6, 1820. 
 d. Oct 30, 1872 
 
 All Together 57 
 
 . . 58 
 
 . . 59 
 
 . . 59 
 
 . . 48 
 
 . . 58 
 
 Alone 
 
 At Sea 
 
 Long Ago 
 
 IMidnight — A Lament 
 The Adieu 
 
 The Return of Kane 57 
 
xl 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 BROWNELL, C. D. W. 
 
 Waiting for the Ship .... 60 
 
 BROT\Ts^ING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. 
 
 b. London. Eng., 1800. 
 d. Florence, June ai, 1801. 
 
 A Character {From Aurora 
 
 Lekih) 68 
 
 A Portrait 6u 
 
 Assurance {Sonnets from the Por- 
 tuguese) 64 
 
 Consolation M?»-o?-a Leigh) . . 63 
 Critics (Aurora Leigh) .... 689 
 Goodness (Aurora Leigh) . . . C88 
 Humanity (Aurora Leigh) . . 689 
 In €he Struggle (Aurora Leiqh) . 67 
 Kindness First Known in a Hos- 
 pital {Aurora Leigh) . . . . 66 
 
 Little jNlattie 61 
 
 Only a Curl 65 
 
 Perfect Love (Sonnets from the 
 
 Portuguese) ....... 64 
 
 Picture of Marian Erie (Aurora 
 
 Leigh) 67 
 
 Selfislmess of Introspection 
 
 (Aurora Leigh) 66 
 
 The Cry of the Human ... 65 
 The One Universal Sympathy 
 
 (Atirora Leigh) 67 
 
 The Sleep . '. 60 
 
 Three Kisses (Sonnets from the 
 
 Portuguese) 64 
 
 To Flush, my Dog 62 
 
 BROWNING, ROBERT. 
 
 b. Cambcrwell, Eng., 1812. 
 
 Dreams (Tlie Ping and the Book) 71 
 
 Evelyn Hope 69 
 
 How they brought the good 
 
 News from Ghent to Ai.x . . 70 
 
 In a Year 68 
 
 Prospice 68 
 
 The Lack of Children (The Ping 
 
 and the liool:\ 71 
 
 The Pied Piper of Hamelin . . 690 
 
 The Two Kisses (In a Gondola) . 70 
 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 
 
 b. Cumniinston, Mass., Nov. 3, 1794. 
 d. New York, .June 12, 1878. 
 
 An Evening Revery (From an 
 
 unfinished Poem) 
 
 Blessed are they that Mourn . 
 
 June 
 
 Life 
 
 Thanatopsis 
 
 The Con(iueror's Grave . . , 
 
 The Crowded Street 
 
 The Eveninu "Wind 
 
 The Frin^fd (ieiitian .... 
 
 The Future Life 
 
 The Past 
 
 BUCHANAN, ROBERT. 
 
 b. Glasgow, Scotland, 1841. 
 
 Dying 807 
 
 To Triflers (Faces on the Wall) . 807 
 
 BUNNER, H. C. 
 
 A Woman's Way . 
 Irwin Russell . . 
 Longfellow . . . 
 To a Dead Woman 
 
 BURBIDGE, THOMAS. 
 
 b. England, 1817. 
 
 At Divine Disposal 
 Eventide 
 
 808 
 808 
 807 
 808 
 
 808 
 809 
 
 BURLEIGH, WILLIAM HENRY. 
 
 b. Woodstock. Conn.. Feb. 2, 1S12. 
 d. Brooklyn, N. Y., Jlarcli 18, 1871. 
 
 Rain 
 
 The Harvest Call 
 
 BURNS, ROBERT. 
 
 b. near A.vr, Scotland, Jan. S.l, 17."fl. 
 d. Dumfries, Scotland, July 21, 17'J6. 
 
 Farewell to Nancy . . . 
 For a' that and a' that . . 
 From the " Lines to a Louse 
 God the only just Judge (Fr 
 
 To the Unco Guid) . . 
 Hijihland ISIary . . . 
 Jolm Anderson, my Jo . 
 ]SIan was Jlade to Mourn 
 Stanzas in Prospect of Death 
 Tam O' Shanter . . . 
 To a Mountain Daisy 
 To Mary in Heaven . . 
 
 BUSHNELL, LOUISA. 
 
 84 
 
 82 
 
 698 
 
 85 
 85 
 84 
 85 
 83 
 695 
 83 
 82 
 
 Delay 
 
 BUTLER, SAMUEL. 
 
 b. Strenehani, Worcestershire, Eng., 1G12. 
 d. Sept. 25, 1(180. 
 
 Love 
 
 The Biblical Knowledge of Hu- 
 dibras (//udibros) 
 
 The Knighfs Steed (Iludihras) . 
 
 The Learning of Hudibras (Hu- 
 dihras) 
 
 The Pleasure of being Cheated 
 (Hudibras) 
 
 BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN. 
 
 b. Albany, N. Y., 1S25. 
 
 From " Nothing to Wear " . . 701 
 The Busts of Goethe and Schil- 
 ler • . . . . 88 
 
 Work and Worship 87 
 
 BUTTS, MARY F. 
 b. Ilopkinlon, R. I., 1837. 
 
 Other Mothers 89 
 
 BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH. 
 b. Warren, R. I., Dec. 22, 18.19. 
 
 The Fountain of Youth ... 89 
 
 BY'ROM, JOHN. 
 
 b. near Manchester, Eng., 1G91. 
 d. Sept. 28, 17G.'!. 
 
 Careless Content 705 
 
 Spectacles or Helps to Read . 706 
 The Way a Rumor is Spread . 704 
 
 699 
 701 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 xli 
 
 BYRON, LORD. 
 
 b. London, Jan. 22. 178-S. 
 
 d. Missolonghi, Greece, April 19, 1824. 
 
 Apostrophe to Ada, the Poet's 
 
 Daughter (Chiifle Harold) . . 105 
 Apostn iphe to the Ocean (CliiUle 
 
 Harohl) 100 
 
 Bvron's Remarkable Prophecy 
 
 \ChiUh' Harold) 103 
 
 Cahn and Tempest at Night on 
 
 Lake Lenian (Childe Harold) . 101 
 
 Critics (English Jiards) . . . 706 
 
 Epistle to Augusta 9~> 
 
 Fare Thee Well 9ii 
 
 Genius { Prop lie CI/ of Dante) . . 99 
 
 Greece (ChUde Harold). ... 105 
 
 Inscription 94 
 
 LiOve (7'lie Giaou)-) 97 
 
 Maid of Athens 94 
 
 On Completing my Thirty-sixth 
 
 Year (His last verses) .... 107 
 One Presence Wanting {Childe 
 
 Harold) 104 
 
 She Walks in Beauty .... 93 
 
 Sleep (The Dream) 97 
 
 Sonnet on Chillon 93 
 
 Sun of the Sleepless 92 
 
 The First Day of Death (The 
 
 Giaour) 97 
 
 The Isles of Greece (Don Juan) . 98 
 The Misery of Excess {Childe 
 
 Harold) 100 
 
 Vratfi-hio (Cliilde Harold) . . . 106 
 When Ciililncss Wraps this Suf- 
 fering Clay 92 
 
 CAMPBELL, TH0:MAS. 
 
 b. Glasgow, Scotland, July 27, 1777. 
 d. Boulogne, France, June Ij, 1844. 
 
 Against Skeptical Philosophy 
 
 (Pleasures of Hope) .... 117 
 Apostrophe to Hope (Pleasures 
 
 of Hope) 117 
 
 Battle of the Baltic 114 
 
 Domestic Happiness (Pleasures 
 
 of Hope) 116 
 
 Exile of Erin 112 
 
 Field Flowers Ill 
 
 Hallowed Ground ...... 108 
 
 Hohenlinden 112 
 
 Hope in Adversity (Pleasures of 
 
 Hope) . . . . ■ '.116 
 
 How Delicious is the Winning . 110 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter .... Ill 
 
 Song 115 
 
 Song 707 
 
 The Distant in Nature and Ex- 
 perience (Pleasures of Hope) . 115 
 The Last Man . ..'.... 109 
 The River of Life ...... 114 
 
 To a Young Lady 708 
 
 To the Rainbow 113 
 
 Tribute to Victoria 115 
 
 Ye Mariners of England . . , 110 
 
 CANNING, GEORGE. 
 
 b. I.nndon, April 11,1770. 
 d. Cliiswick, Aug. .S, 1827. 
 
 The University of Gottingen . 708 
 
 CAREW, THOMAS. 
 
 b. Devonshire, Eng., loS3. d. 1639. 
 
 Ask Me no More US 
 
 Disdain Returned 118 
 
 CARLETON, WILL. 
 
 b. Hudson, Michigan, Oct. 21, 1845. 
 
 The New Year's Baby (From 
 Farm Ballads) 709 
 
 CARLYLE, THOMAS. 
 
 b. Ecclefechan. Dumfriesshire, Scotland, 
 Dec. 4, 1795 d. Chelsea, London, 1881. 
 
 Cui Bono? 119 
 
 To-day 118 
 
 CARY, ALICE. 
 
 b. near Cincinnati, Oliio, April 26, 1820. 
 d. New York, Feb. 12, 1871. 
 
 A Dream 121 
 
 Counsel 121 
 
 Life 119 
 
 Life's Mystery 122 
 
 No Ring 122 
 
 Spent and Misspent 121 
 
 The Ferry of Gallaway ... 120 
 
 CARY, PHCEBE. 
 
 b. near Cincinnati, Ohio. Sept. 4, 1834. 
 d. Newport, R. L, July S], 1871. 
 
 Answered 127 
 
 Archie 125 
 
 Conclusions ........ 126 
 
 Dead Love 123 
 
 Nearer Home 123 
 
 Our Homestead 127 
 
 The Lady Jaqueliue 124 
 
 CHATTERTON, THOMAS. 
 
 b. Bristol, Eng., Nov. 2(1, 17.v2. 
 d. London, Aug. 25, 1770. 
 
 On Resignation 810 
 
 CHAUCER, GEOFFREY. 
 
 b. London, l.'SS ? d. Oct. 25, 1400. 
 
 Good Counsel 811 
 
 The Parson 810 
 
 To his Empty Purse 812 
 
 CHENEY, JOHN VANCE. 
 
 May 812 
 
 CLARK, LUELLA. 
 
 b. America. 
 
 If You Love Me 128 
 
 CLARK, SARAH D. 
 
 The Soldanella 128 
 
 CLEM]VrER, MARY ANN. 
 b. rtica, N. Y.,18.'!9. 
 
 Nantasket 130 
 
 Wailing 131 
 
 Words for Parting 129 
 
 CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 
 
 b. Liverpool, Jan. 1, 1819. 
 d. Florence, Nov. 13, 18G1. 
 
 Becalmed at Eve 131 
 
 Natura Naturans 1.32 
 
 No More 131 
 
xlii 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 COLEllIDGE, HARTLEV. 
 
 b. near Bristol, Eng., Sept. 19. I'OB. 
 d. Ambleside, Eng , Jan. lU, 18411. 
 
 Address to Certain Gold-flslies . 
 
 No Life Vaiu 
 
 November 
 
 Song 
 
 The Flight of Youth .... 
 
 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. 
 
 b. Devonshire, Eng., Oct. 21, llTi. 
 d. London, July i5, 1834. 
 
 Bell and Brook ( Three Graves) . 
 
 Broken Friendships ( Christabel) 
 
 Complaint and Reproof . . . 
 
 Epigram 
 
 From an Ode to the Rain . . . 
 
 From Dejection 
 
 From Lines Composed in a Con- 
 cert-room 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise in the Val- 
 ley of Chamouni 
 
 Lines to a Comic Author . . . 
 
 Love 
 
 Love, Hope and Patience in 
 Education 
 
 Names 
 
 Penance of the Ancient IViariner 
 (Ancient Mariner) 
 
 The Ancient Mariner Refreshed 
 by Sleep (Ancient Mariner) . 
 
 The Ship Becalmed (Ancient 
 Manner 
 
 The Voices of the Angels . . 
 
 Youth and Age • 
 
 COLLIER, THOMAS STEPHENS, 
 b. New York, 1842. 
 
 An October Picture 
 
 Complete 
 
 Off Labrador 
 
 1.34 
 i:U 
 133 
 134 
 133 
 
 COLLINS, MORTIMER. 
 
 b. Plymouth, Eng., 1827. d. 1876 
 In view of Death . . . 
 Last ^'erses 
 
 COLLINS, WILLIAM. 
 
 b Chicliestor, Eng., Dec. 25, 1720. 
 d. Chichester, Eng., 1750 
 
 Ode on the Death of Thomson . 
 
 Ode to Evening 
 
 Ode to Simplicity 
 
 Ode to the Brave 
 
 On True antl False Taste in 
 
 Music 
 
 The Passions 
 
 143 
 143 
 142 
 
 144 
 144 
 
 COOK, CLARENCE CHATHAM. 
 
 b. Dorchester, Mass., Sept. 8, 1828. 
 On one who Died in May . . 
 
 COOK, ELIZA. 
 
 b. London, Eng., 1817. 
 
 After a Mother's Death . . 
 Ganging to and Ganging frae 
 My Old Straw Hat .... 
 Song of tlie Hempseed . . . 
 Song of fhe Ugly Maiden . . 
 
 1.50 
 1.50 
 1.50 
 14!J 
 151 
 
 COOKE, PHILIP PENDLETON. 
 
 b. Martinsburg, Va., Oct. 2(i, 1816. 
 d. Jan. 20, 1850. 
 
 Florence Vane 151 
 
 COOKE, ROSE TERRY. 
 
 b. Hartford, Conn., Feb. 17, 1827. 
 
 The Iconoclast 152 
 
 Then 153 
 
 Trailing Arbutus -152 
 
 COOLBRITH, INA D. 
 
 In Blossom Time 153 
 
 The Mother's Grief 154 
 
 COOLIDGE, SUSAN (Sarah Woolsey) 
 b. Cleveland, Ohio. 
 
 Influence 814 
 
 Miracle 814 
 
 One Lesser Joy 813 
 
 CORNWELL, HENRY S. 
 b. Charlestown, N. 11., ISPA. 
 
 The Dragon-fly 815 
 
 The Spider 815 
 
 COTTON, CHARLES. 
 
 b. Staffordshire, Eng., 16.30. d. 16S7. 
 
 Contentation 154 
 
 In the Quiet of Nature ( From 
 Retirement) 154 
 
 COWLEY, ABRAHAM!. 
 
 b. London, 1618. d. Chertsey, July 28, 1G67. 
 Distance no Barrier to the Soul 
 
 (Friendship in Absence) . . . 1.56 
 
 Of Myself 155 
 
 On the Shortness cf Life . . . 156 
 Reason an aid to Revelation 
 
 (Jieason) • . . 156 
 
 COWPER, WILLIAM. 
 
 b. Hertfordshire, Eng.. Nov. 26, 1731. 
 d. Norfolk, Eng., April 2.i, 1800. 
 
 A Faithful Picture of Ordinary 
 
 Society {Con rersation) . . . 715 
 
 Alexander Selkirk 161 
 
 Apostrophe to Popular Applause 
 
 (The 'J ask) 1.57 
 
 Descanting ou Illness (Convcrsa- 
 
 tion) 715 
 
 John Gilpin 711 
 
 Light Shining Out of Darkness. 157 
 
 Mercy to Animals (r/(e 7'«s/0 . 160 
 
 Pairing-time Anticipated . . . 710 
 
 The Captious (Conrersatwn) . . 716 
 The Freedom of the Good ( The 
 
 Task) 158 
 
 The Emphatic Talker ( Conversa- 
 tion) 715 
 
 The Poplar Field 157 
 
 The Post-boy ( The Task) ... 161 
 The Soul's Progress Checked 
 
 (Retirement) 161 
 
 The Tongue (Co7iversat ion) . . 714 
 The Uncertain Man (Conveisa- 
 
 tion) 614 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 xliii 
 
 The Wiuter's Evening (The 
 
 Task) 158 
 
 To Mary . ' 162 
 
 COXE, ARTHUR CLEVELAND. 
 
 b. Mendham, N. ' , May 10, 1818. 
 
 Watchwords S16 
 
 CKABBE, GEORGE. 
 
 b. Aldboroush, Eng., Dec. 24, 1734. 
 d. Feb. S, 1832. 
 
 Advice to one of Simple Life 
 (The Patron) ....... 718 
 
 Against Rash Opiuious (Gentle- 
 man Farmer) 165 
 
 Apostrophe to the Whimsical 
 
 (The Villaf/e) 165 
 
 Books ( The Library) 170 
 
 Controversialists ( The Library) . 168 
 External Impressions Depend- 
 ent on the Soul's Moods (Lov- 
 er's Journey) 107 
 
 Folly of Litigation (Gentleman 
 
 Farmer) 164 
 
 Friendship in Age and Sorrow 
 
 (Partintj Nozir) 168 
 
 Learning" is Labor (Schools) . . 164 
 
 Life (Parting Hour) 168 
 
 Man's Dislike to be Led (Dumb 
 
 Orators 165 
 
 Philosophy (Library) .... 109 
 Quacks (From Physic) .... 718 
 Reporters (Fj-ojw the JS'^ewspaper) 717 
 Sleep the Detractor of Beauty 
 
 (Edward Shore) 163 
 
 Sly Lawyers (From. Latv) . . . 718 
 The Awful ^'acancy ( The Parish 
 
 Register) 165 
 
 The Condemned, His Dream and 
 
 its Awakening (Prisons) . . 166 
 The Perils of Genius (Edward 
 
 Shore) 163 
 
 The Readers of Dailies (From 
 
 the Newspaper) 717 
 
 The Teacher (Schools) .... 164 
 The Religious Journal (i''«)Hi the 
 
 A'ewspoper) 717 
 
 The Universal Lot ( The Library ) 169 
 The Vacillating Piu-pose (E'd- 
 
 ivard Sftore) 163 
 
 The Young Poet's Visit to the 
 
 KnU (The Patron) . . ■ . 719 
 To Critics (The Library) ... 168 
 Union of Faith and Reason Ne- 
 cessary (7'/ie i,J6;-ar(/) . . . 169 
 
 CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK. 
 b. Stoke-upon-Trent, Eng., 1826. 
 
 Green Things Growing .... 170 
 
 My Little Boy that Died . . . i72 
 
 Now and Afterwards .... 170 
 
 Philip Mv King 171 
 
 Plighted" 171 
 
 Resigning 172 
 
 Too Late 172 
 
 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. 
 
 b. Alexandria, Va., March 8, 1813. 
 
 A Thrush in a Gilded Cage . . 173 
 
 Compensation 174 
 
 I in Thee, and Thuu in Me . . 176 
 
 Memorial Hall 174 
 
 Shelling Peas 719 
 
 Soft, Brown, Smiling Eyes . . 176 
 
 The Dispute of the Seven Days 721 
 
 Thought 175 
 
 Why? 176 
 
 CKASHAW, RICHARD. 
 
 b. Cambridgesliire, Eng. d. Loreto, Italy. 
 Lines on a Prayer Book . . . 816 
 
 CROLY, GEORGE. 
 
 b. Dublin, Aug., !7.S0. d. Nov. 24, ISGO. 
 
 Cupid Growing Careful .... 178 
 Evening 178 
 
 CROWNE, JOHN. 
 b. Nova Scotia, d. 1703. 
 
 Wishes for Obscurity .... 179 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 
 
 b. Blackwood, Scotland, Dec. 7. 1785. 
 d. London, Oct. 2a, 1»42. 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 180 
 She's Gane to Dwell in Heaven 180 
 Thou Hast Sworn by thy God . 179 
 
 CURTIS, GEORGE WILLIAM, 
 b. Providence, R. I., Feb. 24, 1824. 
 
 Egyptian Serenade 181 
 
 Major and Minor 181 
 
 Music in the Air 181 
 
 DANA, RICHARD HENRY. 
 
 b. Cambridge, Mass., Nov. 15, 1787. 
 
 d. Feb. 2, 187y. 
 
 The Husband and Wife's Grave 181 
 The Soul 182 
 
 DEMAREST, MARY LEE. 
 
 My Aiu Couutree 183 
 
 De verb, sir AUBREY. 
 
 b. Limerick, Ireland, ]7Si ? d. 1846. 
 
 Columbus 184 
 
 Misspent Time ....... 184 
 
 De VERE, sir AUBREY THOMAS, 
 b. Limerick, Ireland, 1814. 
 
 Affliction ......... 185 
 
 All Tilings Sweet when Prized . 186 
 
 Beatitude 186 
 
 Bending Retweeu Me and the 
 
 Taper - 185 
 
 Happy Are They ...... 185 
 
 Power of Poesy (Poetic Faculty) 184 
 
 The Angels Kiss Her . 185 
 
 The Mood of Exaltation 186 
 
 De VERE, MARY AINGE. 
 
 A Love Song ....... 817 
 
 DICKENS, CHARLES, 
 
 b. Portsmouth, Eng., Feb. 7, 1812. 
 d. Gad's Hill, London, June 9, 1870, 
 
 The Ivy Green ...... 187 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 DICKINSON, CHARLES M. 
 b. I.owville, N. Y., 1842. 
 
 The Children 187 
 
 DICKINSON, MARY LUWE. 
 
 If we had but a Day 188 
 
 DOBELL, SYDNEY THOMPSON, 
 b. Peekham, Rye, Eng., 1824. 
 d. Aug. 22, 1874. 
 
 America 189 
 
 Home, Wouuded 189 
 
 DOBSON, AUSTIN. 
 b. England, 1840. 
 
 Farewell, Renown 190 
 
 More Poets Yet 722 
 
 The Child Musician 190 
 
 The Prodigals 190 
 
 DODGE, MARY MAPES. 
 b. 1838. 
 
 Death in Life 191 
 
 Heart Oracles 192 
 
 My Window Ivy 191 
 
 The Child and the Sea .... 192 
 
 The Human Tie 191 
 
 The Stars 192 
 
 DODGE, MARY B. 
 
 Loss 817 
 
 DONNE, JOHN. 
 
 b. London, 157;!. d. March .31, 1G.31. 
 
 The Farewell 818 
 
 DORR, HENRY RIPLEY. 
 
 b. Rutland, Vt., Oct. 27, 1858. 
 
 Door and Window 818 
 
 DORR, JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY, 
 b. Charleston, S. C, IS2.3. 
 
 At Dawn 196 
 
 At the Last ........ 193 
 
 Five -195 
 
 Peradventure 194 
 
 Thou Knowest 195 
 
 What Need? 194 
 
 What She Thought 193 
 
 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. 
 
 b. New York, Aug. 7, 179.5. d. Sept. 21, 1820. 
 
 The American Flag . . . „ . 197 
 DRAYTON, MICHAEL. 
 
 b. Warwickshire, Eng., 1563. d. 1631. 
 
 The Parting . , 198 
 
 Di; uanroND, william. 
 
 b. Ilawtliorndcn, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1585. 
 d. Dec. 4, 1(;49. 
 
 Despite All ...-.,... 198 
 What We Toil For . . 198 
 
 DRYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 b. Northamptonshire, Eng., Aug. 9, 1631. 
 d. May 1, 1700. 
 
 A Character (.4&sa/om and Aclii- 
 tophel) ......... 722 
 
 Alexander's Feast ..... 199 
 
 A Wife (Eleonord) 206 
 
 Beautiful Death (Eleonoro) . . 206 
 
 Charity (Eleonoro) ' 206 
 
 From ''The Cock and the 
 
 Fo.x " 722 
 
 Judgment in Studying the Bible 
 
 (He/igio Laid) 205 
 
 The Avoidance of Religious Dis- 
 putes (Reliqio Laid) .... 205 
 The Bible (Itdigio Laid) ... 204 
 The Light of Reason (Religio 
 
 Laid) 204 
 
 The Model Preacher (Charader 
 
 of a Good Parson) 207 
 
 The Wit {Absalom and Achito- 
 
 phd) 207 
 
 ITnder the Portrait of John 
 
 Milton 204 
 
 DUNBAR, WILLIAM. 
 
 b. Salton, Scotland, about 1460. d. about 15.30. 
 All Earthly Joy Returns in Pain 208 
 
 DYER, SIR EDWARD. 
 
 b. about 1540. 
 
 ]My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 
 
 EASTMAN, CHARLES GAMAGE. 
 
 b. Fryehurg, Me., June 1, 1816. 
 d. Burlington, Vt., 1861. 
 
 A Snow Storm 
 
 819 
 
 208 
 
 ELIOT, GEORGE (Mariax Evans Cross). 
 
 b. Warwickshire, Eng., 1820. d. Dec. 2, 1880. 
 O May I Join the Choir Invisible 209 
 
 ELLIOT, JANE. 
 
 b. 1727. d. 1805. 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest . . 210 
 
 ELLIOTT, EBENEZER. 
 
 b. near Rotherham. Yorkshire, Eng., March 
 17, 1781. d. Dec. 1, 1849. 
 
 Not for Naught 212 
 
 Poor Andrew 211 
 
 The Poet's Prayer 212 
 
 The Press . . " 211 
 
 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 
 
 b. Boston, Mass , May 25, 1803. 
 d. Concord, Mass., April 27, 18S2. 
 
 Concord Fight 
 
 Forbearance ...... 
 
 0, ]rr2- 
 d. Altrive, Scotland, Nov. 21, 1835. 
 
 The Skylark 271 
 
 HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT. 
 
 b. Belohertown, Mass., July 24, 1819. 
 d. Oct, 12, 1S81. 
 
 A Song of Doubt {Bitter Sweet) . 
 A Song of Faith " " 
 
 Cradle Song " " 
 
 Life from Death " " 
 
 On the Righi 
 
 Strength Through Resisted 
 
 Temptation (Bitter Sweet) , . 
 
 The Press of Sorrow {Bitter 
 
 Sweet) 
 
 The Type of Struggling Human- 
 ity {Marble Prop Iter n) . . . 
 To an Infant Sleeping {Bitter 
 
 Sweet) 
 
 What is the Little One Thinking 
 
 Ahout'; (Bitter Siceet) . . . 272 
 ^yhat will it Matter? . . .275 
 Worth and Cost (Bitter Sweet) . 273 
 
 HOLME, SAXE. (?) 
 
 Three Kisses of Farewell ... 276 
 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. 
 
 b. Cambridge, Mass., .Vug. 29, 1800. 
 
 A Familiar Letter to several 
 
 Correspondents 732 
 
 Dorothy Q. — A Family Portrait 277 
 
 Hymn of Trust 279 
 
 Nearing the Snow-line .... 278 
 
 The September Gale .... 733 
 
 The Two Streams ...... 279 
 
 The Voiceless 276 
 
 Lender the Violets . . . ! ! 278 
 
 HOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 b. London, May 2'!, 1799. 
 
 d. London, May 3, 1845. 
 
 Ballad 2S4 
 
 Faithless Nelly Gray .... 7.39 
 
 Faithless Sally Brown .... 746 
 
 Farewell, Life ! 2S3 
 
 I'm not a Single Man . . . . 7.37 
 
 I Remember, 1 Remember . . 2S0 
 
 John Day 735 
 
 Love Bettered by Time . . ! 284 
 
 Melancholy 
 
 Number One 
 
 The Art of Book-keeping . . . 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs 
 
 The Cigar 
 
 The Death-bed 
 
 The Double Knock 
 
 The Song of the Shirt . . . . 
 To a Child Embracing his Mo- 
 ther • . . . . 
 
 To my Infant Son 
 
 True Death 
 
 HOPKINS, LOUISA PARSONS. 
 
 b. Newburyport, April 19, 1&34. 
 Autumn { Peisephone) . . 
 Early Summer (Persephone) 
 
 December 
 
 Hymn from " Motherhood " 
 Late Summer (Persephone) 
 Tempestuous Deeps . . . 
 
 279 
 736 
 741 
 
 282 
 738 
 281 
 7.38 
 281 
 
 280 
 734 
 2S4 
 
 829 
 828 
 828 
 829 
 829 
 828 
 
 HOPKINSON, FRANCIS. 
 
 b. Pliiladelphia, 17.38. d. May 9, 1791. 
 
 The Battle of the Kegs .... 742 
 
 HOUGHTON, GEORGE. 
 
 b. Cambridge, Mass., Aug. 12, 1850. 
 
 Ambition {Album Leaves) . . . 285 
 Charity " " ... 286 
 
 Courage " " ... 285 
 
 Daisy " " ... 286 
 
 Purity " " ... 286 
 
 Regret " " ... 285 
 
 This Name of Mine {Album 
 
 Leai-es) 285 
 
 Valborg Watching Axel's De- 
 parture (Legend of St. Olaf's 
 AJrA-) 284 
 
 HOUGHTON, LORD (Richard Monckton 
 Milnes). 
 b. Yorkshire, Eng., June 19, 1809. 
 
 Al! Things Once are Things For- 
 ever • 289 
 
 Divorced '. 288 
 
 Forever Unconfessed .... 288 
 I Wandered by the Brookside . 287 
 
 Labor . . .' 286 
 
 Since Yesterday 286 
 
 The Worth of Hours .... 287 
 HOWE, JULIA WARD, 
 b. New York, May 27. 1819. 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic . 289 
 Imagined Reply of Eloisa 
 
 ( Thoughts in Pere La Chaise) . 289 
 Stanzas from the " Tribute to a 
 
 Servant" 290 
 
 The Dead Christ 291 
 
 HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN. 
 
 b. Martinsville, Ohio, March 1, 1837. 
 
 Convention 292 
 
 Thanksgiving 292 
 
 The Mulberries 292 
 
 The Mysteries 292 
 
 The Poet's Friends 292 
 
xlviii 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES, 
 
 HOWITT, MAKY. 
 
 b. Uttoxetcr, Eng, 1804. 
 
 The Broom-Flower 294 
 
 Tibbie Inglis 295 
 
 HOWITT, WILLIAM. 
 
 b. Derbyshire, Eng., 1793. d. March 2, IS'O. 
 
 Departure of the Swallow . . 296 
 
 HOYT, RALPH. 
 
 b. New Yurk, 1808, d. 1878. 
 
 Old 296 
 
 HUNT, LEIGH. 
 
 b. Southgate, Eng., Oct. 19, 1784. 
 d. Putney, Aug. 28, 1839. 
 
 Abou Ben Adliem 299 
 
 Death 301 
 
 lyiay and the Poets 301 
 
 Stanzas from Song of the 
 
 Flowers 299 
 
 The Grasshopper and Cricket . 300 
 
 HUTCHINSON, ELLEN MACKAY. 
 
 Autumn Song 830 
 
 On the Road 830 
 
 Sea-way 830 
 
 The Prince 830 
 
 INGELOW, JEAN. 
 
 b. Ipswich, Eng., 1830. 
 
 Like a Laverock in the Lift . . 307 
 
 Songs of Seven 301 
 
 The Long White Seam .... 307 
 
 JACKSON, HELEN (H.- H.) 
 
 b. Amherst, Mass., 1831. 
 
 July 831 
 
 March 831 
 
 My Nasturtiums (Th<- Crn/iiri/) . 832 
 
 The Last Words " " ' . 830 
 
 JENNISON, LUCIA W. (Owen Innsley). 
 b. Newton, Mass., 1850. 
 
 At Sea 833 
 
 Dependence 833 
 
 Her Roses 832 
 
 111 a Letter 832 
 
 Outre-mort 832 
 
 JOHNSON, ROBERT UNDERWOOD. 
 b.,Washington, D. C, Jan. 12, 185.'!. 
 
 In November (From The Century) 834 
 
 JOHNSON, SAMUEL. 
 
 b. Lichfield, Eng., Sept. 18, 1709. 
 d. London, Dec. LS, 17S4. 
 
 Charles XII. ( Inanity of Human 
 Wishes) 308 
 
 Enviable Age ( Vanity of Human 
 Wishes) ..■..'.. . . 308 
 
 The Fate of Poverty (London) . 309 
 Wisdcim's Prayer {Vanity of 
 llinnan Wishes) 308 
 
 JONSON, BEN. 
 
 b. Westminster, London, June II, 1574. 
 d. Aug. 16, 1837. 
 
 Epitaph 310 
 
 Good Life, Long Life . . . • 310 
 
 Hymn to Cynthia 310 
 
 The Sweet Neglect 310 
 
 ToCelia 309 
 
 JOYCE, ROBERT DWYER. 
 
 Kilcoleman Castle 834 
 
 The Banks of Amier .... 835 
 
 KAY, CHARLES de. 
 
 Fingers 836 
 
 KEATS, JOHN. 
 
 b. London, 1795. d. Rome, Feb. 24, 1821. 
 Beauty's Immortality {Endy- 
 
 mion) 312 
 
 Fancy .311 
 
 Ode on the Poets 311 
 
 Ode to a Nightingale .... 312 
 On Reading Chapman's Homer . 314 
 Sonnet Composed on Leaving 
 
 England 311 
 
 The Terror of Death .... 310 
 
 KEBLE, JOHN. 
 
 b. Fairford, Gloucestershire, En"., .\pril 25, 
 1792. d. Bournemouth, Eng., March 29, IStiG. 
 
 Since all that is not Heaven 
 
 must Fade 316 
 
 Where is thy Favored Haunt ? . 314 
 Why Should we Faint, and Fear 
 to Live Alone '? 315 
 
 KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. 
 b. London, 1811. 
 
 Absence 317 
 
 Faith 318 
 
 KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT. 
 
 b. Frederick Co., Md., Aug. 1, 1779. 
 d. Baltimore, Jan. 11, 1843. 
 The Star-Spangled Banner . . 318 
 
 KIMBALL, HARRIET McEW^EN. 
 
 b. Portsmouth, N. H., 1804. 
 
 Day Dreaming 320 
 
 Good News 319 
 
 Heliotrope 319 
 
 The Last Appeal 320 
 
 Trouble to Lend 319 
 
 KING, HENRY. 
 
 b. England. 1591. d. lGi;9. 
 
 From the " Exequy on his 
 Wife" 836 
 
 KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 
 
 b. nolne, Devonshire. Eng., June 12, 1819. 
 
 d. Eversley, Jan. 24, 1875. 
 
 A Farewell 321 
 
 Dolcino to Margaret 321 
 
 Sands of Dee 321 
 
 The Three Fishers 321 
 
 KNOX, WILLIAM. 
 
 b. Roxburghe, Scotland. 1789. d. 1825. 
 Oil ! why ShotiUl the Spirit of 
 Mortal be Proutl 322 
 
INDEX OF AUTHOBS AND TITLES. 
 
 xlix 
 
 LACOSTE, MARIE R. 
 
 b Savannah, Ga., 1842. 
 
 Somebody's Darling 323 
 
 LAIGHTON, ALBERT. 
 
 b. Portsmouth, N. H. ]82'.l. 
 
 By the Dead 324 
 
 Uniler the Leaves 324 
 
 LAMB, CHARLES. 
 
 b. London, Feb. IS, 1775. 
 
 d Edmonton, Eng., Dec. 27, 1834. 
 
 Hester 32,5 
 
 Old Familiar Faces 32.5 
 
 The Housekeeper 325 
 
 LANDOR, L.ETITIA ELIZABETH. 
 
 b. Chelsea, Eng., ia)2. 
 d. Africa, Oct. 10, ]8.'!8. 
 
 Success Alone Seen 326 
 
 The Little Shroud 326 
 
 Sir Walter Scott at Poiupeii . . 327 
 
 The Poet 327 
 
 LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 
 
 b Ipsley Court, Warwickshire, Eng., Jan. 
 3(1, 1775. d. Florence, Sept. 17, 18(H. 
 
 A Request 328 
 
 Death of the Day 328 
 
 In No Haste . 327 
 
 I Will Not Love 328 
 
 Rose Aylnier 328 
 
 Rubies 327 
 
 The One White Hair .... 743 
 
 Under the Lindens 743 
 
 LANIER, SIDNEY. 
 
 b. Macon, Ga., 1842. d. 1881. 
 
 Betrayal 
 
 Evening Song 
 
 From the Flats' 
 
 329 
 
 328 
 328 
 
 LARCOM, LUCY. 
 
 b. Beverly Farms, Mass., 1826. 
 
 A Strip of Blue .332 
 
 Hand in Hand with Angels . . 332 
 Hannah Binding Shoes . . . 329 
 Heaven near the Virtuous (From 
 
 Hints) 333 
 
 The Curtain of tlie Dark {From 
 
 Hints) 3,30 
 
 Unwedded 330 
 
 LATHROP, GEORGE PARSONS. 
 
 b. Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, Aug. 25, 1851. 
 
 A Face in the Street .... 3.36 
 
 New Worlds 334 
 
 Sailor's Song ! ! 3.35 
 
 The Lily Pond 3,34 
 
 To My Son 334 
 
 LATHROP, ROSE HAWTHORNE. 
 The Striving of Hope {Closing 
 Chords) 837 
 
 LAZARUS, EMMA. 
 
 b. New York, July 22, 1849. 
 
 A March Violet 3:57 
 
 Night {Scenes in the Wood) . . 337 
 Pleasant Prospect {Scenes in the 
 
 Wood) 336 
 
 Remember • 338 
 
 LELAND, CHARLES GODFREY, 
 b. Philadelphia, Aug. 15, 1824. 
 
 City Experiences (Breitmann 
 
 About Toicn) 744 
 
 Mine Own 339 
 
 Schnitzerl's Philosopede . , . 745 
 
 LEVER, CHARLES JAMES, 
 b. Dublin, Ireland, Aug. 31, 1806. 
 d. Trieste, June 1, 1872. 
 
 Widow Malone 745 
 
 LEYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 b. Dcnholm, Scotland, Sept. 8, 1775. 
 d. Batavia, JS. I., Aug. 21, 1811. 
 
 Ode to an Indian Coin .... 339 
 LODGE, THOINIAS. 
 
 b. Lincolnshire, Eng., 1556. 
 d. London, Sept., 1625. 
 
 Rosaline 340 
 
 LOGAN, JOHN. 
 
 b. Fala, near Edinburgh, Scotland, 1748. 
 d. London, Dec. 28, 17.%^. 
 
 The Cuckoo 341 
 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. 
 
 b. Portland, Me., Feb. 27, 1807. 
 
 d. Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882. 
 
 A Day of Sunshine 345 
 
 Maiden and Weathercock . . 343 
 
 Nature 343 
 
 President Garfield 837 
 
 Stay, Stay at Home, my Heart, 
 
 and Rest 342 
 
 The Meeting 342 
 
 The Ladder of St. Augustine . ,341 
 
 The Tides .343 
 
 Three Friends of Mine .... .344 
 
 The Two Angels .344 
 
 Weariness 342 
 
 LONGFELLOW, SAJIUEL. 
 b. Portland, Me., June 18, 1819. 
 
 From iVIire to Blossom .... 346 
 
 LOVELACE, RICHARD. 
 
 b. Woolwich, Eng., 1018. d. London, 1658. 
 To Lucasta, on Going beyond 
 
 the Seas 346 
 
 To Lucasta, on Going to the 
 Wars 346 
 
 LOVER, SAMUEL. 
 
 b. Dublin, Ireland, 17117. d. July 6, 18(B. 
 
 Fatherland and Mother Tongue 748 
 
 Father Molloy 748 
 
 Oh ! Watch You Well bv Day- 
 light 347 
 
 Rory O'More 746 
 
 The' Angel's Wing 347 
 
 The Birth of St. Patrick . . . 74t) 
 
 The Child and the Autunni Leaf 347 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 Widow Machree 
 
 Yield Not, Thou Sad One, to 
 Sighs . . . . 
 
 LOWELL, JAMES BUSSELL. 
 b. Cambridge, Muss., Feb. 22, ISD). 
 
 After the Burial 
 
 Auf Wiedersclien 
 
 June ((-';/(/(/■ llw Wdlows) 
 Storm at Ai)plt'dore .... 
 The Courtin' (liiylow Papers) 
 Tlie Generosity of Nature 
 
 ( Vision of air Launfal) . 
 The Heritage ..... 
 Without and Within 
 
 LUNT, GEORGE. 
 
 b. Newburyport, Mass., Dee. 31, 1803. 
 
 The Comet 8.38 
 
 LYTE, HENRY FRANCIS. 
 
 b. Ednaiii, Scotland, 171)3. d. 1«47. 
 
 Abide With Me 353 
 
 LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES. 
 
 b. Cincinniiti, Nov. 2. 1S2G. 
 
 Killed battle Chiekamauga, Sept. 20, 1SC3. 
 
 Antony to Cleopatra .... 353 
 LYTTON, LORD (Edward Bulwer) 
 
 b. England, 1S05. 
 
 Caradoc, the Bard, to the Cym- 
 rians {h'i)t(/ Arthur) .... 839 
 
 Is it all Vaiiity 838 
 
 Justice, tlie Regenerative Power 
 {mc/ielicu) 839 
 
 LYTTON, ROBERT BULWER (Owen 
 Meredith), 
 b. Herts, Eng., Nov. 8, 1831. 
 
 A Character (Lucilc) . . 
 
 Changes 
 
 Fame (Liicile) . . 
 
 Few in Many " . . 
 
 Life a Victory " . . 
 
 The Cliess-board .... 
 The Erratic Genius (Lurile) 
 The Stomach of Man " 
 The Unfulfilled 
 
 MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON. 
 1). Leicestershire. Eng., Oct. 25, 1800. 
 d. London, Uec. £8, 1850. 
 
 From " The Lay of Horatius " . 354 
 
 MACDONALI>, GEORGE. 
 b. Huntley, Scotland, 182.';. 
 
 O Lassie ayont the Hill. . . . 3.59 
 The Baby " 3.59 
 
 MACE, FRANCES LAUGHTON. 
 b. Orono, Me., Jan. 15. 183C. 
 
 Easter Morning 360 
 
 0..1y Waiting 360 
 
 The Heliotrope 361 
 
 MACKAY, CHARIvES. 
 
 b. Perth, Scotland, 1812. 
 
 A Question Answered .... 365 
 
 At a Club Dinner 75H 
 
 Be Quiet, do 757 
 
 Clear the Way ! 36i! 
 
 Cleon and I 362 
 
 Extract from " A Reverie in the 
 
 Grass " 3ti5 
 
 Happiness 757 
 
 O ve Tears 364 
 
 Tell me, ye Winged Winds . . .366 
 
 The Child and the Mourners . 361 
 
 The Good Time Coming . . . 363 
 
 The great Critics 757 
 
 The Liglvt in the Window . . . 363 
 
 The little Man 758 
 
 To a Friend afraid of Critics . 754 
 
 MANN, CAMERON. 
 
 b. New York City. April ."., lS.il. 
 
 The Longing of Circe .... .H42 
 
 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 b. Canterbury, Kng., Feb. 2C, 1504. 
 d. Dcpttbrd, June 16, 1503. 
 
 A Passionate Sheplierd to his 
 Love 842 
 
 MARSTON. PHILIP BOURKE. 
 b. London, 1850. 
 
 From Afar 843 
 
 Too Near 843 
 
 MABVELL, ANDREW. 
 
 b. Winestead, Yorkshire, Eng., March 2, 1621. 
 d. London, Aug. IT, 1078. 
 
 A Drop of Dew 367 
 
 MASON, CAROLINE ATHERTON. 
 
 May (From T/ie Century) ... 844 
 An opeu Secret " '" 844 
 
 MASSEY, GERALD. 
 
 b. Herts, Eng., May 29, 1828. 
 
 And thou hast Stolen a Jewel . 368 
 Jerusalem the Golden .... 367 
 The Kingliest Kings 368 
 
 MCCARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE. 
 
 b. Cork, Ireland, 1820. 
 
 Summer Longings 369 
 
 McKAY, JAMES I. 
 
 A Summer Morning 842 
 
 MERRICK, JAMES. 
 
 b. Reading, Eng., Jan. 8, 1720. 
 d. Reading, Eng., June 5, 1709. 
 
 The Chameleon 7.59 
 
 MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. 
 
 b. Langholm, Scotland, 17*1. 
 
 The Sailor's Wife 372 
 
 MICHELL, NICH0L.4S. 
 
 Alexander at Persepolls . . . :!70 
 
 The Paradise of Cabul. ... 371 
 
MILLER, ABRAHAM PERRY, 
 b. Ohio, Oct. 15, 18;17. 
 
 Keep Faith in Love ( Consolation) .S74 
 Kef uge from iJoubt '• i!76 
 
 Turu to the Helper " 373 
 
 MILTOK. JOHN. 
 
 I). London, Dec. !l, 1608. 
 d. London, Nov. is, iHTi. 
 
 Apostrophe to Light (Paradise 
 
 Lost) 381 
 
 II Penseroso 376 
 
 L' Allegro .375 
 
 On his Blindness .379 
 
 On Reaching Twentv-three . . 380 
 
 On Time . . . .' .... .374 
 
 Song on ]May Morning .... 378 
 Stnnzas from '' Hymn on the 
 
 Nativity" ....'.... 379 
 The Bower of Adam and Eve 
 
 {Paradise Lost) 380 
 
 To a virtuous young Lady . . 380 
 
 MITCHELL, WEIR. 
 
 The Quaker Graveyard (From 
 The Century) . . ' 844 
 
 MOIR, DAVID MACBETH. 
 
 b. Musselbursli, .Scotland, Jan. 5, 1798. 
 d. Uiiinfrics, July t;, INol. 
 
 Stanzas from "Casa Wappy " . 381 
 
 MONTGOMERY, JAMES, 
 b. Irvine, Scotland. No^". 4, 1771. 
 d. ShefHcId, April :», 1854. 
 
 Aspirations of Youth .... 384 
 
 Forever with the I.,ord .... 385 
 
 Friend after Friend Departs . 384 
 
 Love of Country, and of Home . 382 
 
 Prayer 383 
 
 The" common Lot 383 
 
 MOORE, THOMAS. 
 
 b. Dublin. Irel.ind. May 28, 17711. 
 d. Sloperton, Feb. L'5, lbJ2. 
 
 As slow our .Ship 388 
 
 Come, ye Disconsolate .... 387 
 Estrangement through Trifles 
 
 (Lalla Pookh) 385 
 
 Extracts from Miss Biddy's Let- 
 ters (Fudge Family in Paris) . 760 
 I Saw from' the Beach .... 387 
 Oft in the stilly Night .... 386 
 O Thou wlio Dry'st the Mourn- 
 er's Tears 386 
 
 Recognition of a congenial 
 
 Spirit (Lai la Jiookli) .... 385 
 
 The Bird Let loose 3i^6 
 
 The modern puffing System (An 
 
 Epistle to Samuel Rogers) . . 760 
 
 Those Evening Bells .... .387 
 
 Thou Art, O God 387 
 
 MORRIS, GEORGE P. 
 
 b. Philadelphia, Oct. V2. 1802. 
 d. New York, July 6, 18G4. 
 
 Woodman, Spare that Tree . . 388 
 
 MORRIS, WILLIAM. 
 
 b. England, 1834. 
 
 April (Earthly Paradise) . . 390 
 
 December " " . . 390 
 
 Februarv " " . . 389 
 
 March " " . . 389 
 
 JMOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. 
 
 b. Glasgow, Scotland, Oct. 13, 17117. 
 d. Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 1, 18J5. 
 
 Jeanie Morrison 392 
 
 Last Verses 391 
 
 My Heid is like to Rend, Willie 391 
 
 The Cavalier's Song, 392 
 
 Thev Come ! The merry Sum- 
 mer Mouths ....... 394 
 
 MOULTOS, ELLEN LOUISE CHANDLER, 
 b. Ponifret, Conn., April IG, 1833. 
 
 At Sea 845 
 
 From a Window in Chamouni . 846 
 
 Hie Jacet 846 
 
 Left behind 845 
 
 My Saint 845 
 
 NAIRNE, LADY CAROLINE OLIPHANT. 
 b. Gask. Perthshire, Scotland. July IC, 17GC. 
 d. Gask, Oct. 27, 184.v. 
 
 The Land o' the Leal .... 394 
 
 NEWELL, WILLIA]M, D.D. 
 
 b. Littleton, Mass., Feb. 25, 1804. 
 
 Serve God and be Cheerful . . 395 
 
 NEAVMAN, JOHN HENRY, 
 b. London, Eng., Feb. 21, 1801. 
 
 A Voice from afar 396 
 
 Flowers without Fruit .... 396 
 
 NORTON, ANDREWS. 
 
 b. Hingham, Mass., Dec. 31, 1786. 
 d. Newport, R. 1., Sept. 18, 1853. 
 
 Scene after a Summer Shower . 396 
 
 NORTON, CAROLINE E. S. S. 
 b. Hampton Court, Eng., 1*8. d. 1877. 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine .... 397 
 We have been Friends Together 398 
 
 O'REILLY, JOHN BOYLE, 
 b. Ireland, 1844. 
 
 Forever 400 
 
 Hidden Sins 401 
 
 Peace and Pain 399 
 
 The Ride of Collins Graves . . 399 
 
 Unspoken Words 401 
 
 ORNE, CAROLINE FRANCES. 
 
 The Gold under the Roses . . 846 
 
 OSGOOD, FRANCES SARGENT. 
 
 b. Boston. Mai on Criticism) 432 
 
 From Eloisa to Abelard ... 429 
 Just Judgment (Essai/ on Criti. 
 
 cism) 4;!3 
 
 Man (Essai/ on Mmi) .... 430 
 Merit be\ond Beauty (Rape of 
 
 the Lock) 768 
 
 Submission to Supreme Wisdom 
 
 (Essn]i on Afnn) 430 
 
 The Universal Prayer .... 433 
 True Nobility (Essay on Afnn) . 431 
 Truth to Nature (Essay on 
 
 Criticism) 432 
 
 Virtue, the sole Unfailing Hap- 
 piness (/r.<.s«)/ wt jl/aii) . . , 431 
 Vt^it, (Essai/ on Criticism) ... 432 
 
 PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH. 
 
 b. London, Eng,, >H02. 
 
 d. July 15, 18;». 
 
 Quince 771 
 
 The Belle of the Ball .... 769 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES, 
 
 PKENTICE, GEORGE DEXXISON. 
 
 b. Preston, Conn., Dec. 18, 1802. 
 d. Louisville, Jan. 1*2, 1870. 
 
 The River in the Mammoth Cave 
 PRESCOTT, MARY N. 
 
 Asleep 
 
 The old Storv 
 
 To-day . . ' 
 
 847 
 
 PRESTON, MARGARET JUXKIX. 
 
 b. Lexinijton, Va., 1835. 
 
 Equipoise 
 
 God's Patience 
 
 Nature's Lesson 
 
 Ours 
 
 Stonewall Jackson's Grave . 
 There'll Come a Day . , . 
 
 The Shadow 
 
 The Tyranny of INIood . . . 
 
 PRINGLE, THOMAS. 
 
 b. Blaiklaw, Scotland. Jan. 5, 1789. 
 d. London, Dec. 5, IS;'^. 
 
 Afar in tlie Desert .... 
 
 4.3.5 
 43.3 
 434 
 
 434 
 435 
 435 
 4.34 
 4L'5 
 43t) 
 435 
 436 
 
 PRIOR, MATTHEW. 
 
 b. Wimhiirnc-Miiistcr, En?., July 21, ICGl. 
 d. Cambridgeshire, Sept. IS, 1721". 
 
 An Epitaph 
 
 For mv own Jlonument . . . 
 
 From '" The Thief and the Cor- 
 delier " . . . ■ 
 
 Richard's Theory of the Mind 
 (^Alma') 
 
 The wise Man in Darkness 
 (Solomon) 
 
 The wise Man in Light (Solomon) 
 
 PROCTOR, ADELAIDE ANNE. 
 
 b. London, Eng., Oct. SO, 1825. 
 d. London, Feb. 2, 1804. 
 
 A Lost Chord 
 
 A Woman's Question . . 
 Cleansing Fires .... 
 Incompleteness .... 
 
 Judge Not 
 
 One by One 
 
 Strive, Wait, and Pray 
 
 Thankfulness 
 
 Too Late 
 
 437 
 
 441 
 442 
 442 
 443 
 440 
 440 
 443 
 440 
 441 
 
 PROCTOR, BRYAN WALLER. 
 
 b. Wiltshire. En< 
 
 The Blessed Daniozel .... 467 
 The Sea Limits 467 
 
 RUSSELL, IRWIN. 
 
 d. New Orleans, Dec, 1879. 
 
 Her Conquest (From The Cen- 
 tury) 8.51 
 
 SANGSTER, MARGARET E. 
 b. New Rochelle, N. Y., 18.J.S. 
 
 Our Own 468 
 
 Sufficient unto the Day . . . 468 
 
 SARGENT, EPES. 
 
 b. Gloucester. JVIass., Sept. 27, 1812. 
 d. Dec. .il, IbSO. 
 
 A Life on the Ocean Wave . . 465 
 
 A Summer Noon at Sea . . . 471 
 
 A Thought of the Past .... 470 
 
 Cuba 471 
 
 Forget me Not 469 
 
 Soul of my Soul 469 
 
 The Spring-time will Return . 470 
 
 Tropical Weather 471 
 
 SAVAGE, MINOT JUDSON. 
 b. Norridgewock. Me., June 10, 18-11. 
 Lives Boston, Mass. 
 
 Life in Death 472 
 
 Light on the Cloud 473 
 
 Pescadero Pebbles 472 
 
 SAXE, JOHN GODFREY. 
 
 b. Highgate, Vt., June 2, 1810. 
 
 About Husbands 778 
 
 Early Rising 777 
 
 How Cyrus Laid the Cable . . 77.5 
 
 I'm Growing old 474 
 
 Little Jerry, the Miller . . . 474 
 
 Railroad Rhyme 779 
 
 Somewhere 474 
 
 Song of Saratoga 776 
 
 The Family Man 779 
 
 The Old Man's Motto .... 473 
 
 The Puzzled Census-taker . . 776 
 
 The Superfluous Man .... 77.5 
 
 To my Love 47(! 
 
 Treasure in Heaven 476 
 
 Wouldn't you Lilie to Know . 47.5 
 
 SAXTON, ANDREW BICE. 
 
 b. Middleficld, N. Y., April 5, 18.T.. 
 
 Delay (From The Century) . 852 
 Midsummer " " . 8.52 
 
 SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 
 
 h. Edinburgh, Scotland. Aug. l.i, 1771. 
 d. Abbotsford, Scotland, Sipt. 21, 18'12. 
 
 A Picture of Ellen {Lady of the 
 
 Lake) 477 
 
 A Scene in the Highlands (Lndij 
 
 of the Lake 477 
 
 Breathes there a Man (Ijay of 
 
 the Last Minstrel) . . . . ' . 478 
 
 Faith in Unf aith ( The Betrothed) 479 
 
 Helvellyn 481 
 
 Love ( Lay of the Last MinJ^frel) 478 
 Melrose Abbey by :Moonlight 
 
 {Lay of the Last Minstrel) . . 478 
 
 Paternal Love ( Lady of the Lake) 478 
 
 Payment in Store {/•'edoauntlet) 479 
 
 Rebecca's Hymn (Icnnhoe) . . 479 
 Summer Dawn at Loch Katrine 
 
 (Lady of the Lake) 476 
 
 The Sun" upon the Weirdlaw- 
 
 Hill 480 
 
 The Violet 481 
 
 Wandering Willie . • . . 480 
 
 SEAVER, EMILY. 
 
 b. Charlestown, Mass., Nov. 5, 1S35. 
 
 The Rose of .Jericho .... 482 
 
 SEW ALL, HARRIET WINSLOW. . 
 b. Portland, Me., June 30, 1810. 
 
 Why thus Longing? 483 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. 
 
 b. Strati'.. rd-on-Avon, April 23, 15G4. 
 d. April 2.% ICIG. 
 
 Constant Effort Necessary to 
 Support Fame {Troilus and 
 Cressida) . 4> 6 
 
 End of all Earthly Glory (7V(e 
 Tempest 4S7 
 
 False Appearance {Merchant of 
 Venice) 485 
 
 Fear no More (Cymbeiine) . . 488 
 
 Fear of Death (Measure for 
 Measure) 487 
 
 Good Counsel of Polonius to 
 Laertes (Hamlet) 485 
 
 Ingratitude {As i/ou Like It) . . 484 
 
 Life's Theatre " " . . 4.*4 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. 
 
 Iv 
 
 Life's Vicissitudes (/ft'nry VIII,) 487 
 Love, the Solace of present Cal- 
 amity 488 
 
 Love, the Retriever of past 
 
 Losses 489 
 
 Love Unalterable 489 
 
 Mercy (Merchant of Venice) . . 48G 
 
 No Spring without the Beloved. 489 
 The Horse of Adouis {Venus 
 
 and Adonis) 488 
 
 To Be, or not to Be (Hamlet) . 484 
 
 To rny Soul 489 
 
 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 
 
 b. Field Place, Sussex. Eng.. Aiifc. 4, 1702 
 Drowned in the Bay of ^pl■ziu. Italv, July 
 8, lS:i2. ■ ■' 
 
 Death 492 
 
 From " The Sensitive-Plant " . 493 
 From "To a Lady ^vith a 
 
 Guitar" 495 
 
 Good-Night 495 
 
 Love's Philosophy 490 
 
 Music, when soft Voices Die . 492 
 
 Mutability 4(;,5 
 
 One Word is too often Profaned 490 
 
 The Cloud 492 
 
 The World's Wanderers . . . 492 
 
 Time 492 
 
 To a Skylark 490 
 
 SHENSTONE, WILLIAM. 
 
 b, Leasowes, near Ilales-Owen. Eng.,Nov.. I7H. 
 ark 
 
 SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 
 
 b. Fenshurst, Kent. Eng., Nov. 20, 1554 
 d. Arnheini, Holland, Oct. 7, 15SG. 
 
 Sonnet to Sleep 499 
 
 SIGOURNEY, LVDIA HUNTLEY. 
 
 b. Norwich, Conn., .'Jept. 1, 1701. 
 
 d. Hartford, Conn., June 10, IStiS. 
 
 Benevolence .500 
 
 Farewell of the Soul to theBody 499 
 The Coral Insect 500 
 
 SIMMS, WILLIAM GILIMORE. 
 
 b. Charleston, S. C, April 17, ISOC. 
 
 a. Charleston, S. C, June 11, 1.S70. 
 
 Friendship 50,3 
 
 Heart e.ssential to (Jenius . '. 502 
 
 Manhood 593 
 
 Night-storm ! '. 503 
 
 Progress in Denial 501 
 
 Recompense 502 
 
 Solace of the Woo.ls ' ' 'ioi 
 
 Triumph 504 
 
 Unhappy Childhood 503 
 
 SMITH, ALEXANDER. 
 
 b. Kilmarnock, Scotland, Dec. .'il, If«l). 
 d. WarcJie, near Ldiiiburgli, Jan. 25, J,sii7. 
 
 Barbara (Horton) .-,04 
 
 Glasgow 505 
 
 SMITH, CHARLOTTE TURNER. 
 
 b. Sussex, Eng., 1740. d. ISOfi. 
 
 The Close of Spi-ing .^07 
 
 The Cricket .507 
 
 SAIITH, FLORENCE. 
 
 b. Xew York City. March 11, ]84^ 
 d. Fort Washington, July 10, 1S71. 
 
 Somebody Older .509 
 
 The Purple of the Poet (Hain- 
 bow Songs) .508 
 
 The Yellow of the Miser (Rain- 
 bow Sont/s) .508 
 
 Uurequitiiig 509 
 
 SMITH, HORACE, 
 b. London, Dee. .31. 1770. 
 d. Tunbridge Wells, July 12, 1S40. 
 
 Address to a Mummy . . . . ."ill 
 Hymn to the Flowers .... 510 
 
 SMITH, MAY REILLY-. 
 b. Brighton, N. Y., 1S42. 
 
 If 
 
 Sometime 
 
 51.-! 
 
 51;; 
 
 SOUTHEY, CAROLINE ANTvE BOWLES, 
 b. Buckland, Eng., Dee. 6, 1787. 
 d. July 20, 1854. 
 
 I never Cast a Flower away . . 515 
 Launch thy Bark, Mariner . . 514 
 The Pauper's Death-bed . . . 514 
 
 SOUTHEY, ROBERT. 
 
 b. Bristol, Eng., Aug. 12. 1774. 
 d. Cumberland, Eng., March 21, 184.3. 
 Love's Immortality (Curse of 
 
 Keliaina) ..." 517 
 
 Nature's Questions and Faith's 
 
 Answer (Thataba) . 515 
 
 Night " . ,516 
 
 Remedial Suffering " . 5i(; 
 
 The Battle of Blenheim . . . .520 
 The Cataract of Lodore ... 521 
 
 The Ebb-tide .522 
 
 The Holly-Tree 5IS 
 
 The Maid of Orleans Girding for 
 
 Battle (Joan of Arc) .... 517 
 The  . . . . 562 
 On the Reception of Wordsworth 
 atOxford 562 
 
 TANNAHILL, ROBERT. 
 
 b. Paisley, Scotland, June ."i, 1774. 
 d. Lancashire, Eng., May 17, 1810. 
 
 The Flower o' Dumblane . . . 563 
 The Midges Dance aboon the 
 Burn 563 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD. 
 
 b. Kennctt Square, Penn., Jan. II, 1J>2J. 
 d. Berlin, Dec. 19, 1S7S. 
 
 A Funeral Thought 565 
 
 Before the Bridal 566 
 
 In the Meadows 566 
 
 On the Headland .564 
 
 Proposal 565 
 
 Squandered Lives 566 
 
 The Father 564 
 
 The Lost May 56T 
 
 The Mystery 507 
 
 The Song of the Camp .... 568 
 
 To a Bavarian Uirl 569 
 
 Wind and Sea 565 
 
 TAYLOR, SIR HENRY, 
 b. Durham, Eng., 1800. 
 
 Love Reluctant to Endanger its 
 
 Object (Philip Van Artevelde) 570 
 Nature's Need '' " 571 
 
 Relaxation '" " 571 
 
 The Mystery of Life " " 570 
 
 Unknown Greatness " " 596 
 
 What Makes a Hero ? .... 571 
 When Joys are Keenest {PMlip 
 Van Arteviikh) 571 
 
 TAYLOR, JANE. 
 
 b. London, Sept. 23, 1783. 
 
 d. Ongar, Essexshire, April 2, 1824. 
 
 The Squire's Pew . , . . . .572 
 
 TENNYSON, ALFRED. 
 
 b. Sotnersby, Lincolnshire, Eng., 1809. 
 
 Ask me no More (The Princess) .'578 
 
 A Welcome to Alexandra . . . 582 
 
 Break, Break. Break .... 584 
 
 Bugle Song (jT/fe PWjice.ss) . . 577 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade . 584 
 
 Circumstance 585 
 
 Come not when I am Dead . . 585 
 Condition of Spiritual Commu- 
 nion {In Memoriam) .... 574 
 Couplets from I.,oeksley Hall . 573 
 Cradle Song { 77(6 PriJice.f.s) . . 578 
 Faith in Doubt (In Memoriam) . 575 
 For his Child's Sake (The Prin- 
 cess) 577 
 
 Garden Song (Mand) .... 580 
 
 Go not, Happy Day (Maud) . . 581 
 
 Hope for All (In Memoriam) . . 571 
 Husband to Wife (The Miller's 
 
 DaiKihter) 579 
 
 Lady Clara ^'ere de Vere . . . 583 
 
 Love (Tlic Miller's Daughter) . 579 
 
 Man and Woman ( The Princess) 578 
 
 Move Eastward, Happv Earth . 585 
 Not at All, or All in AH (Merlin 
 
 and Virien) 580 
 
 Now Lies the Earth ( The Prin- 
 cess) 578 
 
 Reconciliation ( The Princess) . 577 
 Ring out, Wild Bells (In Memo- 
 riam) 576 
 
 Soul to Soul (/?!. il/e»?on'ffTO) . . 575 
 Strong Son of God {In Memwiam) 574 
 Tears, Idle Tears (The Priticess) 577 
 The Death of the Old Year . . 582 
 The Nuns' Song (Guinevere) . . 581 
 The Tears of Heaven .... 585 
 To a Friend in Heaven (In Me- 
 moriam) 576 
 
 "What I would be (The Miller's 
 
 Daughter) 579 
 
 THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 
 
 b. Calcutta, E. I., 1811. 
 d. London, Dec. 24, ISfJS. 
 
 At the Church-gate 585 
 
 Little Billee 783 
 
 Sorrows of Werther . . . . , . 783 
 
 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse . 782 
 
 THAXTER, CELIA. 
 
 b. Portsmouth, N. IL, 1835. 
 
 A Mussel Shell 587 
 
 Beethoven 590 
 
 Courage 589 
 
 Discontent 586 
 
 Farewell 586 
 
 In the Kittery Churchyard . . 589 
 
 Love shall Save us All .... .588 
 
 Reverie •"i87 
 
 The Sandpiper •")91 
 
 The Sunrise never Failed us yet .587 
 
 To a Violin • . .588 
 
 THOMAS, EDITH M. 
 b. Litchfield, Ohio, 1854. 
 
 Flower and Fruit 853 
 
 THOMPSON, MAURICE. 
 
 b. Fairfield, Indiana, Sept. 9, 1844. 
 
 Before Dawn J<54 
 
 The ISIorning Hills 853 
 
 THOMSON, JAMES. 
 
 b. Ednam, Roxburghshire, Scotland, Sept. 11, 
 1700. d. New Lane, near Richmond, Eng., 
 Aug. 27, 1748. 
 
 A State's Need of Virtue (Lib- 
 
 erty) •''^■^ 
 
 Bird's, and their Loves CT/fc Sea- 
 sons) 59.3 
 
 Contentment 5J( 
 
 Death amid the Snows (The 
 
 Seasons) 593 
 
Iviii 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHOR ti AND TITLES. 
 
 Excess to be Avoided ( The Cas- 
 tle of hulolence) 596 
 
 Harvest Time ( The Sensnns) . . 592 
 Health Necessary to Happy Life 
 
 ( 'J'he Castle of Indolence) . . 597 
 Independence (Liberty) . . . 594 
 Nature's Joy Inalienable ( 77/e 
 
 Castle of Indolence) .... 596 
 Pure and' Happy Love {The Sea- 
 sons) 591 
 
 Kepose ( The Castle of Indolence) 595 
 
 Kule, Britannia . * 597 
 
 The Apollo, and Venus of Me bright world dies 
 
 With the dying sun. 
 
 The mind has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the heart but one ; 
 Yet the light of a whole life dies 
 
 When its day is done. 
 
 LOVE'S REWARD. 
 
 Foi{ Love I labored all the day. 
 Through morning chill and midday 
 heat, 
 For surely with the evening gray, 
 I thought. Love's guerdon shall be 
 sweet. 
 
 At eventide, with weary limb, 
 1 brought my labors to the si)ot 
 
BOWLES. 
 
 51 
 
 Where Love had bid me come to him ; 
 Thither I came, but found him not. 
 
 For he with idle folks had gone 
 To dance the hours of night away ; 
 
 And I that toiled was left alone, 
 Too weary now to dance or play. 
 
 THE DIFFERENCE. 
 
 Sweeter than voices in the scented 
 
 hay, 
 Or laughing children gleaning ears 
 
 that stray, 
 
 Or Christmas songs that shake the 
 
 snows above. 
 Is the first cuckoo, when he comes 
 with love. 
 
 Sadder than birds in simless sinnmer 
 
 eves. 
 Or drip of rain-drops on the fallen 
 
 leaves. 
 Or wail of wintry waves on frozen 
 
 shore. 
 Is spring that comes, but brings us 
 
 love no more. 
 
 William Lisle Bowles. 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
 Time ! who know'st a lenient hand 
 
 to lay 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and 
 
 slowly thence — 
 Lulling to sad repose the weary 
 
 sense — 
 The faint pang stealest, unperceived 
 
 away ; 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
 And think when thou hast dried 
 
 the bitter tear 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul 
 
 held dear, 
 
 1 may look back on every sorrow past, 
 And meet life's peaceful evening with 
 
 a smile — 
 As some lone bird, at day's depart- 
 ing hour, [showei-, 
 
 Sings in the sunbeam of the transient 
 
 Forgetful, lliough its wings are wet 
 the while: 
 
 Yet, all ! how nuich must that poor 
 heart endure 
 
 AVhich hopes from thee, and thee 
 aloue, a cure! 
 
 THE GREENWOOD. 
 
 Oh! when 'tis summer weather. 
 And the yellow bee, with fairy 
 soimd. 
 The waters clear is humming round. 
 And the cuckoo sings unseen. 
 And the leaves are waving green, — 
 Oh! then 'tis sweet. 
 In some retreat, 
 To hear the murmuring dove, 
 With those whom on earth alone we 
 
 love. 
 And to wind through the greenwood 
 together. 
 
 But when 't is winter weather, 
 And crosses grieve, 
 And friends deceive, 
 And rain and sleet 
 The lattice beat, — 
 Oh ! then 't is sweet, 
 To sit and sing 
 
 Of the friends with whom, in the 
 days of Spring, 
 
 We roamed through the greenwood 
 together. 
 
52 
 
 BRACKETT— BRAINARD. 
 
 Anna C. Brackett. 
 
 IN GAllFIELD'S DANGKll. 
 
 Is it not possible that all the love 
 
 From all these million hearts, which breathless turns 
 
 To one hushed room where silent footsteps move, 
 
 May have some power on life that feebly bui'ns '? 
 
 Must it not have some power in some strange way, 
 
 Some strange, wise way, beyond our tangled ken. 
 
 When far and Avide, from sea to sea to-day. 
 
 Even in quiet fiekls, hard-handed men 
 
 Pause in their toil to ask the passer-by 
 
 " What news ? " and then, " We cannot spare him yet! " 
 
 Surely no tide can powerless rise so high. 
 
 Bear on, brave heart! The land does not forget. 
 
 Thou yet shalt be upborne to life and strength again 
 
 On this flood-tide of love of millions of brave men. 
 
 Mary E. Bradley. 
 
 BE YOND RECALL. 
 
 There was a time when death and I 
 Met face to face together: 
 
 I was but young indeed to die, 
 And it was summer weather; 
 
 One happy year a wedded wife, 
 
 Yet I was slipping out of life. 
 
 You knelt beside me, and I heard, 
 As from some far-off distance, 
 
 A bitter cry that dimly stirred 
 My soul to make resistance. 
 
 You thought nie dead: you called 
 
 my name. 
 And back from Death itself I came. 
 
 But oh ! that you had made no sign, 
 That I had heard no crying ! 
 
 For now the yearning voice is mine. 
 And there is no replying: 
 
 Death never coidd so cruel be 
 
 As Life — and you — have proved to 
 me! 
 
 John G. C. Brainard. 
 
 EPITHALAMliWr. 
 
 I SAW two clouds at morning. 
 Tinged by the rising sun, " 
 
 And in the dawn they floated on, 
 And mingled into one; [blest. 
 
 1 thought that morning cloud was 
 
 It moved so sweetly to the west. 
 
 I saw two summer currents 
 
 Flow smoothly to their meeting. 
 
 And join their course with silent force, 
 In peace each other greeting; 
 
 Calm was their course through banks 
 of green. 
 
 While dimpling eddies played be- 
 tween. 
 
 Such be your gentle motion. 
 
 Till life's last pulse shall beat; 
 Like summer's beam, and summer's 
 stream. 
 Float on, in joy, to meet 
 A calmer sea, where storms shall 
 
 cease — 
 A purer sky, where all is peace. 
 
Mary Bolles Branch. 
 
 THE PETRIFIED FEUX. 
 
 In a valley, centuries ago, 
 
 Grew a little fern-leaf, green and 
 
 slender, 
 Veining delicate and fibres tender; 
 Waving when the wind crept down 
 
 so low ; 
 Rushes tall, and moss, and grass 
 
 grew round it. 
 Playful sunbeams darted in and 
 
 found it. 
 Drops of dew stole in by night, 
 
 and crowned it, 
 But no foot of man e'er trod that 
 
 way ; 
 Earth was young and keeping holi- 
 day. 
 
 Monster fishes swam the silent main, 
 
 Stately forests waved their giant 
 l^ranches. 
 
 Mountains hurled their snowy ava- 
 lanches. 
 Mammoth creatures stalked across 
 the plain ; 
 
 Nature revelled in grand mysteries; 
 
 But the little fern vvas not of these. 
 
 Did not number with the hills and 
 trees. 
 
 Only grew and waved its wild 
 sweet way. 
 
 No one came to note it day by day. 
 
 Earth, one time, put on a frolic 
 
 mood, 
 Heaved the locks and changed the 
 
 mighty motion 
 Of the deep, strong currents of the 
 
 ocean ; 
 Moved the plain and shook the 
 
 haughty wood. 
 Crushed" the little form in soft 
 
 moist clay. 
 Covered it. and hid it safe away, 
 O, the long, long centuries since 
 
 that day I 
 O, the agony, O, life's bitter cost, 
 Since tluit useless little fern was 
 
 lost ! 
 
 Useless ! Lost ! There came a 
 
 thoughtful man 
 Searching Nature's secrets, far and 
 
 deep ; 
 From a fissure in a rocky steep 
 He withdrew a stone, o'er which 
 
 there ran 
 Fairy pencillings, a quaint design. 
 Veinings, leafage, fibres clear and 
 
 fine. 
 And the fern's life lay in every 
 
 line ! 
 So. I think, God hides some souls 
 
 away, 
 Sweetly to surprise us the last day. 
 
 Anne Bronte. 
 
 IF THIS BE ALL. 
 
 O God! if this indeed l)e all 
 
 That life can show to me; 
 If on my aching brow may fall 
 
 No freshening dew from Thee; — 
 If with no brighter light than this 
 
 Tlie lamp of Hope may glow. 
 And I may only dream of bliss. 
 
 And wake to weary woe! — 
 If friendship's solace must decay 
 
 When other joys are gone. 
 
 And love must keep so far away. 
 
 While I go wandering on, — 
 Wandering" and toiling without gain, 
 
 The slave of others" will. 
 With constant care and frequent pain. 
 
 Desi)ised. forgotten still. 
 Grieving to look on vice and sin. 
 
 Yet powerless to quell 
 The silent current from within, 
 
 The outward torrent's swell; 
 While all the good 1 would impart 
 
 The feelings I would share. 
 
54 
 
 BRONTk. 
 
 Are driven backward to my heart 
 And tui'ned to wormwood there; — 
 
 If clouds must ever keep from sight 
 The glories of the sun, 
 
 And I must suffer winter's blight 
 
 Ere summer is begun ; — 
 If life must be so full of care, 
 
 Then call vcn: soon to Thee! 
 Or give ine strength enough to bear 
 
 My load of misery. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 LIFE WILL BE GONE ERE I 
 HAVE LIVED. 
 
 Life will be gone ere I have lived; 
 
 Where now is life's first prime ? 
 I've worked and studied, longed and 
 grieved 
 
 Through all that busy time. 
 
 To toil, to think, to long, to grieve — 
 
 Is such my futui'e fate ? 
 The morn was dreary, must the eve 
 
 Be also desolate ? 
 Well, such a life at least makes Death 
 
 A welcome, wished-for friend; 
 Then aid me, Keason, Patience, Faith, 
 
 To suffer to the end. 
 
 Emily Bront^. 
 
 LAUT LINES. 
 
 No coward soul is mine. 
 No trembler in the world's storm- 
 troubled sphere: 
 I see heaven's glories shine. 
 And Faith shines equal, arming me 
 from fear. 
 
 O God within my breast. 
 Almighty, ever present Deity I 
 
 Life — that in me has rest, 
 As 1 — undying Life — have power 
 in thee I 
 
 Vain are the thousand creeds 
 
 That move men's hearts; unutterably 
 
 vain 
 
 Worthless as withered weeds. 
 
 Or idlest froth amid the boundless 
 
 main. 
 
 To waken doubt in one 
 Holding so fast by thine infinity; 
 
 So surely anchored on 
 The steadfast rock of immortality. 
 
 With wide-embracing love 
 Thy spirit animates eternal years, 
 
 Pervades and broods above. 
 Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, 
 and rears. 
 
 Though earth and man were 
 gone. 
 And suns and universes ceased to be. 
 
 And Thou wert left alone. 
 Every existence would exist in Thee. 
 
 There is not room for Death, 
 Nor atom that his might could ren- 
 der void : 
 Thou — Thou art Being and 
 Breath, 
 Aud what Thou art may never be 
 destroyed. 
 
 deep 
 
 liEMEMDRANCE. 
 
 Cold in tlie earth — and the 
 snow piled above thee, 
 
 Far, far removed, cold in the dreary 
 grave! [thee. 
 
 Have I forgot, my only Love, to love 
 
 Severed at last by Time's all-severing 
 wave ? 
 
BROOKS. 
 
 55 
 
 Now, when alone, do my thoughts 
 no longer hover 
 
 Over the mountains, on that north- 
 ern shore, 
 
 Resting their wings where heath and 
 fern-leaves cover 
 
 Thy noble heart for ever, ever more ? 
 
 Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild 
 
 Decembers, 
 From these brown hills, have melted 
 
 into spi'ing: 
 Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that 
 
 remembers [f ering ! 
 
 After such years of change and suf- 
 
 Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I 
 
 forget thee, 
 While the world's tide is bearing me 
 
 along; 
 Other desires and other hopes beset 
 
 me, 
 Hopes which obscure, but cannot do 
 
 thee wrong! 
 
 No later light has lightened up my 
 
 heaven, 
 No second morn has ever shone for 
 
 me; 
 
 All my life's bliss from thy dear life 
 
 was given, |thee 
 
 All my life's bliss is in the grave with 
 
 But, when the days of golden dreams 
 
 had perished, 
 And even Despair was powerless to 
 
 destroy ; 
 Then did I learn how existence could 
 
 be cherished, 
 Strengthened, and fed without the 
 
 aid of joy. 
 
 Then did I check the tears of useless 
 passion — 
 
 '^Veaned my young soul from yearn- 
 ing after thine; 
 
 Sternly denied its burning wish to 
 hasten |mine. 
 
 Down to that tomb already more than 
 
 And, even yet, I dare not let it lan- 
 guish. 
 
 Dare not indulge in memory's raptu- 
 rous pain ; 
 
 Once drinking deep of that divinest 
 anguish. 
 
 How could 1 seek the empty world 
 asiain ? 
 
 Maria Gowen Brooks. 
 
 [From Zophiel.] 
 SOXG OF EGLA. 
 
 Day, in melting purple dying; 
 Blossoms, all around me sighing; 
 Fragrance, from the lilies straying; 
 Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; 
 
 Ye but waken my distress; 
 
 I am sick of loneliness! 
 
 Thou, to whom I love to hearken. 
 Come, ere night around me darken ; 
 Though thy softness but deceive me. 
 Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee; 
 Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent. 
 Let me think it innocent! 
 
 Save thy toiling, spare thy treasuie; 
 All I ask is friendship's pleasure; 
 
 Let the shining ore lie darkling, — 
 Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; 
 Gifts and gold are naught to me, 
 I would only look on thee! 
 
 Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling. 
 
 Ecstasy, but in revealing; 
 
 Paint to thee the deep sensation. 
 
 Rapture in participation; 
 
 Yet l)ut torture, if comprest 
 Jn a lone, unfriended breast. 
 
 Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me! 
 
 Let these eyes again caress thee. 
 
 Once in caution, I could fiy thee; 
 
 Now, 1 nothing could deny thee. 
 In a look \i death there be, 
 Come, and I will gaze on thee! 
 
THE MARRIAGE OF DESPAIR. 
 
 The bard has sung, God never formed 
 a soul I meet 
 
 Without its own pecuHar mate, to 
 Its wandering half, when ripe to 
 crown the whole 
 Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, 
 most complete! 
 But thousand evil things there are 
 that hate | impede, 
 
 To look on happiness: these hurt, 
 And, leagued with time, space, cir- 
 cumstance, and fate. 
 Keep kindred heart from heart, to 
 pine and pant and bleed. 
 
 And as the dove to far Palmyra 
 
 flying, 
 From where her native founts of 
 
 Antioch beam. 
 Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, 
 
 sighing. 
 Lights sadly at the desert's bitter 
 
 stream, — 
 So many a soul, o'er life's drear des- 
 ert faring, 
 Love's pure, congenial spring un- 
 
 found, unquaffed, 
 Suffers, recoils, — then, thirsty and 
 
 despairing 
 Of what it would, descends and sips 
 
 the nearest drauglit. 
 
 Frances Brown. 
 
 LOSSES. 
 
 Upon the white sea sand 
 There sat a pilgrim band. 
 Telling the losses that their lives had 
 known ; 
 While evening waned away 
 From breezy cliff and bay, 
 And the strong tide went out with 
 weary moan. 
 
 One spake, with quivering lip. 
 Of a fair freighted ship, 
 
 With all his household to the deep 
 gone down ; 
 But one had wilder woe — 
 For a fair face, long ago |town. 
 
 Lost in the darker depths of a great 
 
 There were who mourned their 
 
 youth 
 Witli a most loving ruth. 
 For its brave hopes and memories 
 
 ever green ; 
 And one upon the west 
 Turned an eye that would not 
 
 rest. 
 For far-off liills whereon its joy had 
 
 been. 
 
 Some talked of vanished gold, 
 Some of proud honors told, 
 Some spake of friends that were 
 tlieir trust no more; 
 And one of a green grave 
 Beside a foreign wave. 
 That made him sit so lonely on the 
 shore. 
 
 But when their tales were done, 
 Theie spake among them one, 
 A stranger, seeming from all sori'ow 
 free : 
 " Sad losses have ye met, 
 But mine is heavier yet ; 
 For a believing heart hath gone 
 fi'om me." 
 
 "Alas!" these pilgrims said, 
 " For the living and the dead — 
 For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure 
 cross, 
 For the wrecks of land and 
 
 sea! 
 But, howe'er it came to thee, 
 Thine, stranger, is life's last and 
 heaviest loss." 
 
BROWN ELL. 
 
 57 
 
 Henry Howard Brownell. 
 
 THE RETURX OF A AXE. 
 
 Tom., tower and minster, toll 
 O'er the city's ebb and Howl 
 
 Roll, nniffled drum, still roll 
 AVith solemn beat and slow I — 
 
 A brave and a splendid soul 
 Hath gone — where all shall go. 
 
 Dimmei', in gloom and dark, 
 Waned the taper, day by day, 
 
 And a nation watched the spark, 
 Till its fluttering died away. 
 
 Was its flame so strong and cahn 
 Through the dismal years of ice 
 
 To die 'mid the orange and the palm 
 And the airs of Paradise ? 
 
 Over that simple bier 
 
 While the haughty Spaniard bows, 
 Grief may join in the geneious tear, 
 
 And Vengeance forget her vows. 
 
 Ay, honor the wasted form 
 That a noble spirit wore — 
 
 Lightly it presses on the warm 
 Spring sod of its parent shore; 
 
 Hunger and darkness, cold and storm 
 Never shall harm it moie. 
 
 No more of travel and toil. 
 
 Of tropic or arctic wild: 
 Gently, O Mother Soil, 
 
 Take thy worn and wearied child. 
 
 Lay him — the tender and true — 
 To rest with such who aie gone, 
 
 Each chief of the valiant crew 
 
 That died as oui- own hath done — 
 
 Let him rest with stout Sir Hugh, 
 Sir Humphrey, and good Sir John. 
 
 And let grief be far remote. 
 
 As we march from the place of 
 death. 
 To the blithest note of the fife's clear 
 throat. 
 And the bugle's cheeriest breath. 
 
 Roll, stirring drum, still roll! 
 
 Not a sigh — not a sound of woe. 
 That a grand and glorious soul 
 
 Hath gone where the brave must 
 go. 
 
 ALL TOO ETHER. 
 
 Old friends and dear! it were ungen- 
 tle rhyme. 
 If I should question of your true 
 hearts, whether [time. 
 
 Ye have forgotten that far, pleasant 
 The good old time when Ave were 
 all together. 
 
 Our limbs were lusty and our souls 
 
 sublime ; 
 
 We never heeded cold and winter 
 
 weather, |time. 
 
 Nor sun nor travel, in that cheery 
 
 The brave old time when we were 
 
 all together. 
 
 Pleasant it was to tread the mountain 
 thyme. 
 Sweet was the pure anil piny moim- 
 tain ether. 
 And pleasant all; but this was in the 
 time. 
 The good old time when Me were 
 all together. 
 
 Since then Pve strayed through many 
 
 a fitful clime, 
 ■ (Tossed on the wind of fortune 
 
 like a feather,) 
 And chanced with rare good fellows 
 
 in my time — 
 But ne'er the time that we have 
 
 known together. 
 
 But none like those l)rave hearts (for 
 now 1 climj) 
 Gray hills alone, or thread the 
 lonely heather,) 
 That walked beside me in the ancient 
 twne. 
 The good old time when we were 
 all together. 
 
58 
 
 BROWNE LL. 
 
 Long since, we parted in our careless 
 prime, 
 Like summer birds no June shall 
 hasten hither; 
 No more to meet as in that merry 
 lime, 
 The sweet spring-time that shone 
 on all together. 
 
 fSome, to the fevered city's toil and 
 grime. 
 And some o'er distant seas, and 
 some — ah ! whither ? 
 Nay, we shall never meet as in the 
 time. 
 The dear old time when we were 
 all together. 
 
 And some — above their heads, in 
 wind and rime. 
 Year after year, the grasses wave 
 and wither ; 
 Aye, we shall meet ! — 'tis but a little 
 time. 
 And all shall lie with folded hands 
 together. 
 
 And if, beyond the sphere of doubt 
 and crime. 
 Lie purer lands — ah ! let our steps 
 be thither; 
 That, done with earthly change and 
 earthly time, 
 In God's good time we may be all 
 together. 
 
 MIDNIGHT— A LAMENT. 
 
 Do the dead carry their cares 
 Like us, to the place of rest ? 
 
 The long, long night — is it theirs, 
 Weary to brain and breast ? 
 
 Ah, that I knew how it fares 
 With One that I loved the best. 
 
 I lie alone in the house. 
 How the wretched North-wind 
 raves ! 
 I listen, and think of those 
 O'er whose heads the wet grass 
 waves — 
 Do they hear the wind that blows, 
 And the rain on their lonely graves ? 
 
 Heads that I helped to lay 
 
 On the pillow that lasts for aye. 
 
 It is but a little way 
 To the dreary hill where they lie- 
 
 No bed but the cold, cold clay — 
 No roof but the stormy sky. 
 
 Cruel the thought and vain I 
 
 They've now nothing more to bear- 
 Done with sickness and pain, 
 
 Done with trouble and care — 
 But I hear the wind and the rain. 
 And still 1 think of them there. 
 
 Ah, couldst thou come to me. 
 
 Bird that I loved the best 1 
 That I knew it was well with thee- 
 
 Wikl and weary North-WestI 
 Wail in chinniey and tree — 
 
 Leave the dead to their rest. 
 
 THE ADIEU. 
 
 Sweet Falsehoods, fare ye well I 
 That may not longer dwell 
 In this fond iieart, dear paramours of 
 Youth! 
 A cold, unloving bride 
 Is ever at my side — 
 Yet who so pure, so beautiful as 
 Truth ? 
 
 Long hath she sought my side. 
 And would not be denie(l. 
 Till, all perforce, she won my spirit 
 o'er — 
 And though her glances be 
 But hard and stern to me, 
 At every step 1 love her more and 
 more. 
 
 ALONE. 
 
 A SAD old house by the sea. 
 
 Were we happy. I and thou. 
 In the days that used to be ? 
 
 There is nothing left me now 
 
 But to lie, and think of thee 
 With folded hands on my breast, 
 
 And lisl to the weary sea 
 .Sobbing itself to rest. 
 
BROWNE LL. 
 
 59 
 
 LOXG AGO. 
 
 When at eve I sit alone. 
 Thinking on the Past and Gone — 
 Wliiie the clock, with drowsy finger, 
 Marks how long the minutes lin- 
 ger, — 
 And the embers, dimly burning. 
 Tell of Life to Uust returning — 
 Then my lonely chair around, 
 AVith a (juiet. mournful sound, 
 With a murmur soft and low, 
 Come the ghosts of Long Ago. 
 
 One by one, I count them o'er. 
 Voices, that are heard no more, 
 Tears, that loving cheeks have wet, 
 Words, whose music lingers yet, — 
 Holy faces, pale and fair. 
 .Shadowy locks of waving hair — 
 Happy sighs and whispers dear, 
 Songs forgotten many a year, — 
 Lips of dewy fragrance — eyes 
 Brighter, bluer than the skies — 
 Odors breathed from Paradise. 
 
 And the gentle sliadows glide 
 Softly murmuring at my side. 
 Till the long unfriendly day. 
 All forgotten, fades away. 
 
 Thus, when I am all alone. 
 Dreaming o'er the Past and Gone, 
 All around me, 'sad and slow. 
 Come the ghosts of Long Ago. 
 
 Midnight in drear New England, 
 'Tis a driving storm of snow — 
 
 How the casement clicks and rattles. 
 And the wind keeps on to blow ! 
 
 For a thousand leagues of coast-line. 
 In fitful flurries and starts. 
 
 The wild North-Easter is knocking 
 At lonely windows and hearts. 
 
 Of a night like this, how many 
 Must sit by the hearth, like me. 
 
 Hearing the stormy weather. 
 And thinkins: of those at sea! 
 
 Of the hearts chilled through with 
 watching, 
 The eyes that wearily blink. 
 Through the blinding gale and snow- 
 drift, 
 For the Lights of NavesinkI 
 
 How fares it, my friend, with you '? — 
 If I've kept your reckoning aright, 
 
 The brave old ship must be due 
 On our dreary coast, to-night. 
 
 The fireside fades before me. 
 The chamber quiet and warm — 
 
 And I see the gleam of her lanterns 
 In the wild Atlantic storm. 
 
 Like a dream, 'tis all around me — 
 The gale, with its steady boom, 
 
 And the crest of every roller 
 Torn into mist and spume — 
 
 The sights and the sounds of Ocean 
 On a night of peril and gloom. 
 
 The shroud of snow and of spoon- 
 drift 
 
 Driving like mad a-lee — 
 And the iiuge black hulk that wallows 
 
 Deep in the trough of the sea. 
 
 The creak of cabin and bulkhead. 
 The wail of rigging and mast — 
 
 The roar of the shrouds as she rises 
 From a deep lee-roll to the blast. 
 
 The sullen throb of the engine. 
 Whose iron heart never tires — 
 
 The swarthy faces that I'edden 
 By the glare of his caverned fires. 
 
 The binnacle slowly swaying. 
 And nursing the faithful steel — 
 
 And the grizzled old quarter-master, 
 His horny hands on the wheel. 
 
 I can see it — the little cabin — 
 Plainly as if 1 were there — 
 
 The chart on the old green table. 
 The book and the empty chair. 
 
 On the deck we have trod together, 
 A patient and manly form. 
 
 To and fro, by the foremast. 
 Is pacing in sleet and storm. 
 
60 
 
 BROWN INC. 
 
 Since her keel first struck cold water, 
 By the Stormy Cape's clear Light, 
 
 'Tis little of sleep or slumber. 
 Hath closed o'er that watchful sight, 
 
 And a hundred lives are hanging 
 On eye and on heart to-night. 
 
 Would that to-night, beside him, 
 I walked the watch on her deck, 
 
 Recalling the Legends of Ocean, 
 Of ancient battle and wreck. 
 
 But the stout old craft is rolling 
 A hundred leagues a-lee — 
 
 Fifty of snow-wreathed hill-side, 
 And fifty of foaming sea. 
 
 I cannot hail him, nor press him 
 By the hearty and true i-ight 
 hand — 
 1 can but miumur, — God bless 
 him ! . 
 And bring him safe to the land. 
 
 And send him the best of weather. 
 That ere many sims shall shine, 
 
 We may sit by the hearth together. 
 And talk about Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 WA/TfXG FOR THE SIIW. 
 [Bv C. D'AV. B.] 
 
 We are ever waiting, waiting, 
 Waiting for the tide to turn — 
 " For the train at Coventry," 
 For the sluggish fire to burn — 
 For a far-off friend's return. 
 
 We are ever hoping, hoping. 
 Hoping that the wind will shift — 
 That success may crown our venture- 
 That the morning fog may lift — 
 That the dying may have shrift. 
 
 We are ever fearing, fearing. 
 Fearing lest the ship have sailed — 
 That the sick may ne'er recover — 
 
 That the letter was not mailed — 
 That the tiusted firm has failed. 
 
 We are ever wishing, wishing. 
 Wishing we were far at sea — 
 That the winter were l)ut over — 
 That we could but find the key — 
 That the prisoner were free. 
 
 Wishing, fearing, hoping,, waiting. 
 Through life's voyage — moored at 
 
 last, 
 Tedious doubts shall merge forever 
 (Be their sources strait or vast,) 
 In the inevitable Past. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 He givetb His beloved sleep. 
 
 Pnalm cxxvii. 2. 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward unto souls afar. 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep. 
 Now tell me if that any is. 
 For gift or grace, siu-passing this — 
 " He givetliHis beloved sleep? " 
 
 What would we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 
 
 The poet's star-tuned liarp, to sweep. 
 The patriot's voice, to teach and 
 
 rouse, 
 The monarch's crown, to light the 
 
 bi'ows ? — 
 " He givetb i7/.s- beloved sleep." 
 
 What do we give to our beloved ? 
 
 A little faith all undisproved, 
 
 A little dust to overweep 
 
 And bitter memories to make 
 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake. 
 
 " He givetb Ilia beloved sleep." 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 61 
 
 "Sleep soft, beloved! " we sometimes 
 
 say 
 But have no tune to charm away 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids 
 
 creep : 
 But never doleful dreams again 
 Shall break the happy slumber when 
 "He givetli IIl» beloved sleep." 
 
 O earth, so full of dreary noises! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices! 
 O delved gold, the wallers heap! 
 
 strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! 
 God strikes a silence through you all, 
 And "giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 His dews drop nuitely on the hill. 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
 More softly than the dew is shed. 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Ay, men may wonder while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man. 
 Confirmed in such a rest to keep; 
 But angels say, and through the word 
 
 1 think their happy smile is heard — 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show, 
 That sees through tears the mummers 
 
 leap. 
 Would now its wearied vision close. 
 Would childlike on His love repose, 
 Who "giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 And friends, dear friends — when it 
 
 shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from me. 
 And round my bier ye come to weep. 
 Let one, most loving of you all. 
 Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall — 
 ' He giveth His beloved sleep.' " 
 
 LITTLE MATTIE. 
 
 Dead ? Thirteen a month ago ! 
 
 Short and narrow her life's walk. 
 Lover's love she could not know 
 
 Even by a dream or talk: 
 
 Too young to be glad of youth ; 
 
 Missing honor, labor, rest, 
 And the warmth of a babe's mouth 
 
 At the blossom of her breast. 
 Must you pity her for this. 
 And for all the loss it is — 
 You, her mother, with wet face, 
 Having had all in your case ? 
 
 Just so young but yesternight, 
 
 Now she is as old as death. 
 Meek, obedient in your sight, 
 
 Gentle to a beck or breath 
 Only on last Monday ! yours. 
 
 Answering you like silver bells 
 Slightly touched ! an hour matures : 
 
 You can teach her nothing else. 
 She has seen the mystery hid 
 Under Egypt's pyramid: 
 By those eyelids pale and close 
 Now she knows what Rhamses knows. 
 
 Cross her quiet hands, and smooth 
 
 Down her patient locks of silk, 
 Cold and passive as in truth 
 
 You your fingers in spilt milk 
 Drew along a marble floor; 
 
 But her lips you cannot wring 
 Into saying a word more, 
 
 " Yes," or " No," or such a thing. 
 Though you call, and beg, and wreak 
 Half your soul out in a shriek. 
 She will lie there in default 
 And most innocent revolt. 
 
 Ay, and if she spoke, may be 
 
 She would answer like the Sox, 
 " What is now 'twixt thee and me ? " 
 
 Dreadful answer! better none. 
 Yours on Monday, God's to-day! 
 
 Yours, your child, your blood, your 
 heart. 
 Called ... you called her, did you 
 say, 
 
 " Little Mattie," for your part ? 
 Now already it sounds strange. 
 And you wonder, in this change. 
 What He calls His angel-creature, 
 Higher up than you can reach her. 
 
 'Twas a green and easy world 
 As she took it! room to play, 
 
 (Though one's hair might get uncurled 
 At the far end of the day. ) 
 
62 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 What she suffered she shook off 
 In the sunshine; what she sinned 
 
 She could pray on high enough 
 To keep safe above the wind. 
 
 If reproved by God or you, 
 
 'Twas to better her she knew; 
 
 And if crossed, slie gatliered still. 
 
 'Twas to cross out something ill. 
 
 You, you had the right, you thought, 
 
 To survey her with sweet scorn, 
 Poor gay child, who had not caught 
 
 Yet the octave-stretch forlorn 
 Of your larger wisdom ! Nay, 
 
 Now your places are changed so. 
 In that same superior way 
 
 She regards you dull and low 
 As you did herself exempt 
 From life's sorrows. Grand con- 
 tempt 
 Of the spir'its risen awhile. 
 Who look back with such a smile! 
 
 There's the sting of 't. That, I think. 
 
 Hurts the most, a thousand-fold ! 
 To feel sudden, at a wink. 
 
 Some dear child we used to scold. 
 Praise, love both ways, kiss and tease. 
 
 Teach and txunble as our own. 
 All its curls about our knees. 
 
 Rise up suddenly full-grown. 
 Who could wonder such a sight 
 Made a woman mad outright ? 
 Show me Michael with the sword, 
 Kather than such angels. Lord ! 
 
 TO FLUSH, MY DOG. 
 
 Like a lady's ringlets brown, 
 Flow thy silken ears adown 
 
 Either side demurely 
 Of thy silver-suited breast 
 Shining out from all the rest 
 
 Of thy body purely. 
 
 Darkly brown thy body is. 
 Till the sunshine striking this 
 
 Alchemize its dullness: 
 When the sleek curls manifold 
 Flash all over into gold. 
 
 With a burnished fulness. 
 
 LTnderneath my stroking hand, 
 Startled eyes of hazel bland 
 
 Kindling, growing larger. 
 Up thou leapest with a spring, 
 Fvdl of prank and curveting. 
 
 Leaping like a charger. 
 
 Leap! thy broad tail waves alight; 
 Leap ! thy slender feet are bright, 
 
 Canopied in fringes. 
 Leap — those tasselled ears of thine. 
 Flicker strangely, fair and fine, 
 
 Down their golden inches. 
 
 Yet, my pretty, sportive friend, 
 Little is 't to such an end 
 
 That I praise thy rareness! 
 Other dogs may be thy peers 
 Haply in those drooping ears, 
 
 And this glossy fairness. 
 
 liut of thee it shall be said. 
 This dog watched beside a bed 
 
 Day and night unweary, — 
 Watched within a curtained room, 
 Where no sunbeam brake the gloom 
 
 Round the sick and dreary. 
 
 Iioses gathered for a vase. 
 In tliat chamber died apace, 
 
 Beam and breeze resigning — 
 This dog only waited on. 
 Knowing that, when light is gone 
 
 Love remains for shining. 
 
 father dogs in thymy dew 
 Tiacked the hares and followed 
 through 
 
 Sunny moor or meadow — 
 This dog only crept and crept 
 Next to languid cheek that slept, 
 
 Sharing in the shadow. 
 
 Other dogs of loyal cheer 
 Bounded at the whistle clear, 
 
 Up the woodside hieing — 
 This dog only, watched in reach, 
 Of a faintly uttered speech, 
 
 Or a louder sighing. 
 
 And if one or two quick tears 
 Dropped upon his glossy ears, 
 
 Or a sigh came double, — 
 Up he sprang in eager haste, 
 
Fawning, fondling, l^eathing fast, 
 In a lender ti'ouble. 
 
 Therefore to this dog will I, 
 Tenderly, not scornt'idly. 
 
 Render praise and favor : 
 With my hand upon his head. 
 Is my benediction said, 
 
 Thei-efore and forever. 
 
 And beeanse he loves me so, 
 Better than his kind will do 
 
 Often, man, or woman, 
 (live I back more love again 
 Than dogs often take of men, 
 
 Leaning from my Human. 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 All are not taken ! there are left be- 
 hind 
 
 Living Beloveds, tender looks to 
 bring, 
 
 And make the daylight still a happy 
 thing. 
 
 And tender voices to make soft the 
 wind. 
 
 But if it were not so — if 1 could find 
 
 No love in all the world for comfort- 
 ing. 
 
 Nor any path but hollowly did ring, 
 
 Where " dust to dust" the love from 
 life disjoined — 
 
 And if before these sepulchres im- 
 nioving 
 
 I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb 
 
 Goes bleating up the moors in wearv 
 dearth) 
 
 Cryiiig "'Where are ye, O my loved 
 and loving?" 
 
 1 know a voice would sound, 
 "Daughter. I am. 
 
 Can I suttice for Heaven, and not 
 for earth ? ' ' 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 '• One name is Elizabeth." — Ben Jonsox. 
 
 I WILL paint her as I see her; 
 Ten times have the lilies blown 
 Since she looked upon the sun. 
 
 And her face is lily-clear — 
 
 Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty. 
 To the law of its own beauty. 
 
 Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
 Which a trail of golden hair 
 Keeps from fading off to air: 
 
 And a forehead fair and saintly, 
 Which two blue eyes undershine. 
 Like meek prayers before a shrine. 
 
 Face and figure of a child, — 
 
 Though too calm, you think, and 
 
 tender. 
 For the childhood you would lend 
 
 her. 
 
 Yet child-simple, imdefiled, 
 
 Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
 On the turnings of your will. 
 
 Moving light, as all young things — 
 As young birds, or early wheat 
 When the wind blows over it. 
 
 Only free from flutterings 
 
 Of loud mirth that scorneth meas- 
 ure — 
 Taking love for her chief pleasure: 
 
 Choosing pleasures (for the rest) 
 Which come softly — just as .s^e. 
 When she nestles at your knee. 
 
 Quiet talk she liketh best. 
 In a bower of gentle looks — 
 Watering flowers, or reading 
 books. 
 
 And if any poet knew lier. 
 
 He would sing of her with falls 
 Used in lovely madrigals. 
 
 And if any painter drew her, 
 He would paint her unaware 
 With a halo round her hair. 
 
 And a stranger, — when he sees 
 her 
 In the street even — smileth stilly. 
 Just as you would at a lily. 
 
64 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 And all voices that address her. 
 Soften, sleeken every word, 
 As if speaking to a bird. 
 
 And all fancies yearn to cover 
 The hard earth whereon she passes, 
 With the thymy-scented grasses. 
 
 And all hearts do pray, "God love 
 her!" 
 Ay, and always, in good sooth, 
 We may all be sure He doth. 
 
 [Sonnets from the Portuguese.] 
 ASSUHAXCE. 
 
 Say over again and yet once over 
 
 again 
 That thou dost love nie. Though the 
 
 word repeated 
 Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as 
 
 thou dost treat it. 
 Remember never to the hill or plain. 
 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- 
 strain, 
 Comes the fresh Spring in all her 
 
 green completed ! 
 Beloved, I amid the darkness greeted 
 By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that 
 
 doubt's pain 
 Cry . . speak once more . . thou lov- 
 
 est ! Who can fear 
 Too many stars, though each in 
 
 heaven shall roll — 
 Too many flowers, though each shall 
 
 crown the year ? 
 Say thou dost love me, love me, love 
 
 me — toll 
 The silver iterance I — only minding, 
 
 dear. 
 To love me also in silence, with thy 
 
 soul. 
 
 PERFECT LOVE. 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me count 
 
 the ways. 
 I love thee to the depth and breadth 
 
 and height 
 My soul can reach, when feeling out 
 
 of sight 
 For the ends of being and ideal grace. 
 
 I love thee to the level of every- 
 day' s 
 
 Most quiet need, by sun and candle- 
 light. 
 
 I love thee freely, as men strive for 
 Right: 
 
 I love thee purely, as they turn from 
 Praise : 
 
 I love thee with the passion put to 
 use 
 
 In my old griefs, and with my child- 
 hood's faith; 
 
 I love thee with a love I seemed to 
 lose 
 
 With my lost saints, — I love thee 
 with the breath. 
 
 Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if 
 God choose, 
 
 I shall but love thee better after death. 
 
 THREE KISSES. 
 
 First time he kissed me, he but only 
 
 kissed 
 The fingers of this hand wherewith I 
 
 write. 
 And ever since it grew more clean 
 
 and white, 
 Slow to world-greetings . . quick with 
 
 its "Oli; list !" 
 When the angels speak. A ring of 
 
 amethyst 
 1 could not wear here plainer to my 
 
 sight. 
 Than that first kiss. The second 
 
 passed in height 
 The first, and sought the forehead, 
 
 and half missed. 
 Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond 
 
 meed I 
 That was the chrism of love, M-hich 
 
 love's own crown. 
 With sanctifying sweetness, did pre- 
 cede. 
 The third upon my lips was folded 
 
 down 
 In perfect, purple state ! since when, 
 
 indeed, 
 I have been proud and said, " My 
 
 love, my own." 
 
THE CRY OF THE Hi' MAX. 
 
 ■' There is no God, ' the foolish 
 saith, 
 But none, '' Tliere is no sorrow; " 
 And nature oft, the cry of faith, 
 
 In bitter need will borrow: 
 Eyes which the preacher could not 
 school. 
 By wayside graves are raised ; 
 And lips say, " God be pitiful," 
 That ne'er said, " God be praised." 
 Be pitiful, O God! 
 
 We sit together with the skies, 
 
 The steadfast skies, above us : 
 We look into each other's eyes, 
 
 "And how long will youlove us?" 
 The eyes grow dim with prophecy. 
 
 The voices low and breathless — 
 "Till death us part! " — O words to 
 be 
 
 Our beat for love, the deathless ! 
 
 Be pitiful, dear God! 
 
 We tremble by the harmless bed 
 
 Of one loved and departed — 
 Our tears drop on the lips that said 
 
 Last night, " Be stronger hearted ! " 
 O God, — to clasp those fingers close, 
 
 And yet to feel so lonely ! — 
 To see a light upon such brows, 
 
 Which is the daylight only ! 
 Be pitiful, O God! 
 
 We sit on hills our childhood wist, 
 Woods, hamlets, streams, behold- 
 ing; 
 The sun strikes through the farthest 
 mist. 
 The city's spire to golden. 
 The city's golden spire it was, 
 When hope and health were strong- 
 est. 
 But now it is the churchyard grass 
 We look upon the longest. 
 
 Be pitiful, O God ! 
 
 And soon all vision waxeth dull — 
 Men whisper, " He is dying! " 
 
 We cry no more, " Be pitiful! " — 
 We have no strength for crying; 
 
 No strength, no need! Then, soul of 
 mine. 
 
 Look up and triumph I'ather — 
 
 Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, 
 
 The Son abjures the Father — 
 
 Be pitiful, O God! 
 
 OXLY A CURL. 
 
 Friends of faces unknown and a 
 land 
 
 Unvisited over the sea. 
 Who tell me how lonely you stand. 
 With a single gold curl in the hand 
 
 Held up to be looked at by me ! 
 
 While you ask me to ponder and say 
 What a father and mother can do. 
 With the bright yellow locks put 
 
 away 
 Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay. 
 Where the violets press nearer than 
 you: — 
 
 Shall I speak like a poet, or run 
 Into weak woman's tears for re- 
 lief ? 
 Oh, children! I never lost one. 
 But my arm's round my own little 
 son. 
 And Love knows the secret of 
 Grief. 
 
 And I feel what it must be and is 
 When God draws a new angel so 
 
 Through the house of a man up to 
 His, 
 
 With a miu'mur of music you miss. 
 And a rapture of light you forego. 
 
 How you think, staring on at the 
 door 
 Where the face of your angel 
 flashed in. 
 That its brightness, familiar before. 
 Burns off from you ever the more 
 For the dark of your sorrow and sin. 
 
 " God lent him and takes him," you 
 sigh . . . 
 — Nay, there let me break with 
 your pain, 
 God's generous in giving, say I, 
 And the thing which he gives, I deny 
 That he can ever take back again. 
 
l4% 
 
 66 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 He gives what He gives. I appeal 
 
 To all who bear babes ! In the hour 
 When the veil of the body we feel 
 Kent round us, while torments reveal 
 The motherhood's advent in power; 
 
 And the babe cries, — have all of us 
 known 
 By apocalypse (God being there. 
 Full in nature !) the child is our own — 
 Life of life, love of love, moan of 
 moan, 
 Through all changes, all times, 
 everywhere. 
 
 He's ours and forever. Believe, 
 
 O father ! — O mother, look back 
 To the first love's assurance! To give 
 Means, with God, not to tempt or 
 deceive 
 With a cup thrtist in Benjamin's 
 sack. 
 
 He gives what He gives : be content. 
 
 He resumes nothing given — be sure. 
 God lend ? — ^here the usurers lent 
 In His temple, indignant he went 
 
 And scourged away all those im- 
 pure. 
 
 He lends not, but gives to the end, 
 As He loves to the end. If it seem 
 
 That he draws back a gift, compre- 
 hend 
 
 'Tisto add to it rather . . . amend, 
 And finish it up to your dream, — 
 
 Or keep ... as a mother may, toys 
 
 Too costly though given by herself, 
 Till the room shall be stiller from 
 
 noise. 
 And the children more fit for such 
 joys, 
 Kept over their heads on the shelf. 
 
 So look up, friends ! You who indeed 
 Have possessed in your house a 
 sweet piece 
 Of the heaven which men strive for, 
 
 must need 
 Be more earnest than others are, 
 speed 
 Where they loiter, persist where 
 they cease. 
 
 You know how one angel smiles there. 
 
 Then courage! 'Tis easy for you 
 To be drawn by a single gold hair 
 Of that curl, from earth's storm and 
 despair 
 
 To the safe place above us. Adieu! 
 
 [From Aurora Leigh.] 
 
 KIXnXESS Fin ST K\0)VK IN A 
 HOSPITAL. 
 
 . . . . The place seemed new and 
 
 strange as death. 
 The white strait bed, with others 
 
 strait and white. 
 Like graves dug side by side, at meas- 
 ured lengths, 
 And quiet people walking in and out 
 With wonderful low voices and soft 
 
 steps. 
 And apparitional equal care for each, 
 Astonished her with order, silence, 
 
 law: [cup, 
 
 And when a gentle hand held out a 
 She took it, as you do at sacrament. 
 Half awed, half melted, — not being 
 
 used, indeed. 
 To so much love as makes the form 
 
 of love 
 And courtesy of manners. Delicate 
 
 drinks 
 And rare white bread, to whicli some 
 
 dying eyes [God, 
 
 Were tm-ned in observation. O my 
 How sick we must be, ere we make 
 
 men just ! 
 I think it frets the saints in heaven 
 
 to see 
 How many desolate creatures on the 
 
 earth 
 Have learnt the simple dues of fellow- 
 ship 
 Ancl social comfort, in a hospital. 
 
 [From Aurora Leigh.'] 
 
 SELFISHNESS OF INTROSPEC- 
 TION. 
 
 We are wrong always, when we think 
 
 too much 
 Of what we think or are; albeit our 
 
 thoughts 
 
MARIAN ERLE, 
 
 Page 67. 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 (J7 
 
 Be verily bitter as self-sacrifice, 
 
 We are no less selfish ! If we sleep 
 
 on rocks 
 Or roses, sleeping past the hour of 
 
 noon. 
 We're lazy. 
 
 [From Aurora Leigh.] 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 As light November snows to empty 
 nests, 
 
 As grass to graves, as moss to mil- 
 dewed stones. 
 
 As July suns to ruins, through the 
 • rents, 
 
 As ministering spirits to mourners, 
 through a loss. 
 
 As Heaven itself to men, through 
 pangs of death 
 
 He came uncalled wherever grief had 
 come. 
 
 [From Aurora Leigh.] 
 PICTURE OF MARIA^r ERLE. 
 
 She was not w^hite nor brown 
 But could look either, like a mist that 
 
 changed 
 According to being shone on more or 
 
 less. 
 The liair, too. ran its opulence of 
 
 curls 
 In doubt "twixt dark and bright, nor 
 
 left you clear 
 To name the color. Too mucli hair 
 
 perhaps 
 (I'll name a fault liere) for so small a 
 
 liead, 
 Whicli seemed to droop on that side 
 
 and on tliis. 
 As a full-blown rose, uneasy with its 
 
 weight. 
 Though not a breatli should trouble 
 
 it. Again, 
 The dimple in the cheek had better 
 
 gone 
 Witli redder, fuller roimds: and some- 
 
 wliat large 
 The mouth was^ though tlie milky 
 
 little teeth 
 Dissolved it to so infantine a smile! 
 
 For soon it smiled at me; the eyes 
 
 smiled too, 
 But 'twas as if remembering tliey liad 
 
 wejjt. 
 And knowing they should, some day, 
 
 Aveep again. 
 
 [From Aurora Leigh.] 
 THE OXE UNIVERSAL SYMPATHY. 
 
 . . . . O woni.D, 
 
 O jurists, rhymers, dreamers, what 
 you please. 
 
 We play a weary game of hide and 
 seek! 
 
 We sliape a figure of our fantasy. 
 
 Call nothing something, and run af- 
 ter it 
 
 And lose it, lose ourselves, too, in tlie 
 search. 
 
 Till clash against us, comes a some- 
 body 
 
 Who also has lost sometliing and is 
 lost 
 
 [From Aurora Leigh,] 
 IN STRUGGLE. 
 
 Alas, long suffering and most patient 
 God, 
 
 Tliou need'st be surelier God to bear 
 with us 
 
 Than even to have made us ! tliou as- 
 pire, aspire 
 
 From henceforth for me! tliou who 
 hast, thyself, 
 
 Endured tliis fleslihood, knowing 
 liow, as a soaked 
 
 And sucking vesture, it would drag 
 us down 
 
 And choke us in the melancholy 
 deep. 
 
 Sustain me, tliat, with tliee, I walk 
 these waves. 
 
 Resisting ! — breatlie me upward, thou 
 for me 
 
 Aspiring, who art tlie Way, tlie 
 Truth, the Life, — 
 
 That no truth lienceforth seem indif- 
 ferent. 
 
 No way to truth laborious, and no life, 
 
 Not even this life I live, intolerable ! 
 
i 
 
 68 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 pnospiCE. 
 
 Fe.vk death? — to feel the fog in my 
 throat, 
 The mist in my face, 
 When the snows begin, and the blasts 
 denote 
 1 am nearing the place, 
 The power of the night, the press of 
 the storm, 
 The post of the foe ; 
 Where he stands, the Arch-Fear in a 
 visible form. 
 Yet the strong man must go ; 
 Now the journey is done and the svnn- 
 mit attained. 
 And the barriers fall. 
 Though a battle "s to fight ere the 
 guerdon be gained, 
 The reward of it all. 
 1 was ever a fighter, so, — one tight 
 more, 
 The best and the last ! 
 1 would hate that Death bandaged 
 my eyes, and forbore. 
 And bade me creep past. 
 No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare 
 like my peers. 
 The heroes of old. 
 Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad 
 life's arrears. 
 Of pain, darkness and cold. 
 For sudden the worst turns the best 
 to the brave. 
 The black minute's at end. 
 And the elements' rage, the fiend- 
 voices that rave. 
 Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
 Shall change, shall become first a 
 ]3eace, then a joy. 
 Then a light, then thy breast, 
 O soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee 
 again. 
 And with God be the rest! 
 
 IX A YEAH. 
 
 Nevkr any more 
 
 While I live, 
 Need I hope to see his face 
 
 As before. 
 
 Once his love grown chill. 
 
 Mine may strive, — 
 Bitterly we re-embrace, 
 
 Single still. 
 
 Was it something said, 
 
 Something done. 
 Vexed him ? was it touch of hand. 
 
 Turn of head ? 
 Strange ! that very way 
 
 Love begun. 
 I as little understand 
 
 Love's decay. 
 
 AYhen I sewed or drew, 
 
 1 recall 
 How he looked as if I sang 
 
 — Sweetly too. 
 If I spoke a word, 
 
 First of all 
 Up his cheek the color sprang, 
 
 Then he heard. 
 
 Sitting by my side, 
 
 At my feet, 
 So he breathed the air I breathed 
 
 Satisfied ! 
 I too, at love's brim 
 
 Touched the sweet : 
 I would die if death bequeathed 
 
 Sweet to him. 
 
 " Speak, — I love thee best ! " 
 
 He exclaimed. 
 " Let thy love my own foretell,"— 
 
 1 confessed: 
 " Cast my heart on thine 
 
 Now unblamed. 
 Since upon thy soul as well 
 
 Hangeth mine!" 
 
 Was it wrong to own, 
 
 Being truth ? 
 Why should all the giving prove 
 
 His alone ? 
 I had wealth and ease. 
 
 Beauty, youth, — 
 Since my lover gave me love, 
 
 I gave these. 
 
That was all 1 meant, 
 
 — To be just, 
 
 And the passion 1 had raised 
 
 To content. 
 Since he chose to change 
 
 Gold for dust, 
 If I gave him what he praised, 
 
 AVas it strange '? 
 
 Would he love me yet, 
 
 On and on, 
 While 1 found some way imdreamed, 
 
 — Paid my debt ! 
 Give more life and more, 
 
 Till, all gone, 
 He should smile, *' She never seemed 
 Mine before. 
 
 " AVhat — she felt the while, 
 
 Must I think ? 
 Love's so different with us men," 
 
 He should smile. 
 " Dying for my sake — 
 
 White and pink! 
 Can't we touch those bubbles then 
 
 But they break ? ' ' 
 
 Dear, the pang is brief. 
 
 Do thy part, 
 Have thy pleasure. How perplext 
 
 Grows belief! 
 AVell, this cold clay clod 
 
 Was man's heart. 
 Crumble it, — and what comes next ? 
 
 Is it God ? 
 
 EVELYN HOPE. 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 
 She plucked that piece of gera- 
 nium-flower. 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass. 
 Little has yet been changed, I 
 think. 
 The shutters are shut, — no light may 
 pass 
 Save two long rays through the 
 hinge's chink. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my 
 name, — 
 It was not her time to love; beside. 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim. 
 Duties enough and little cares; 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, — 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of 
 her. 
 
 Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ? 
 
 What ! your soul was pure and true ; 
 The good stars met in your horoscope, 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; 
 And just because I was thrice as old. 
 And our paths in the world diverged 
 so wide, 
 Each was naught to each, must I be 
 told •? 
 We were fellow-mortals, — naught 
 beside ? 
 
 Xo, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant as mighty to make. 
 
 And creates the love to reward the 
 
 love ; 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's 
 
 sake! 
 
 Delayed, it may be, for more lives 
 
 yet. 
 
 Through worlds I shall traverse, 
 
 not a few ; 
 Much is to learn and much to forget 
 Ere the time be come for taking 
 
 you. 
 
 But the time will come — at last it 
 will — 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant. 
 I shall say. 
 In the lower earth, — in the years 
 long still, — 
 That body and soul so pure and 
 gay'? 
 Why your hair was amber I shall 
 divine. 
 And your mouth of your own gera- 
 nium's red, — 
 And what you would do with me, in 
 fine. 
 In the new life come in the old one's 
 stead. 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 1 have lived, shall I say, so much since 
 then, 
 Given up myself so many times, 
 (iained me the gains of various 
 men, 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the 
 climes ; 
 Yet one thing — one — in my soul's 
 full scope. 
 Either I missed, or itself missed 
 me, — 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn 
 Hope! 
 What is the issue '? let us see ! 
 
 1 loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 
 My heart seemed full as it could 
 hold, — 
 There was space and to spare for the 
 frank young smile. 
 And the red young mouth, and the 
 hair's young gokl. 
 So, hush! I will give you this leaf to 
 keep : 
 See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold 
 hand. 
 There, that is our secret ! go to sleep : 
 You will wake, and remember, and 
 understand. 
 
 [From In a Gondola.] 
 
 THE TWO KISSES. 
 
 The Moth's kiss, first! 
 
 Kiss me as if you made believe 
 
 You were not sure, this eve. 
 
 How my face, yoiu' fio\\er, had 
 
 pursed 
 Its petals up ; so, here and there 
 You brush it, till I grow aware 
 Who wants me, and wide open burst. 
 
 The Bee's kiss, now! 
 Kiss me as if you entered gay 
 My heart at some noonday, 
 A bud that dared not disallow 
 The claim, so all is rendered up, 
 And passively its shattered cup 
 Over your head to sleep I bow. 
 
 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 
 NEWS FROM GHENT TO .4/X. 
 
 I SPRANG to the Stirrup, and Joris 
 and he: 
 
 I galloped, Dirck galloped, we gal- 
 loped all three ; 
 
 "Good speed!" cried the watch as 
 the gate-bolts undrew, 
 
 " Speed!" echoed the wall to us gal- 
 loping through. 
 
 Behind shut the postern, the lights 
 sank to rest. 
 
 And into the midnight we galloped 
 abreast. 
 
 Xot a word to each other; we kept 
 
 the great pace — 
 Xeck by neck, stride by stride, never 
 
 changing our place ; 
 I turned in my saddle and made its 
 
 girths tight. 
 Then shortened each stirrup and set 
 
 the pique right, 
 Rebuckled the check-strap, chained 
 
 slacker the bit, 
 Xor galloped less steadily Roland a 
 
 whit. 
 
 'Twas moonset at starting; butAvhile 
 
 we drew near 
 Lokeren. the cocks crew and twilight 
 
 dawned clear ; 
 At Boom a great yellow star came 
 
 out to see ; 
 At Duffeld 'twas morning as plain as 
 
 could be; 
 And from Mecheln church-steeple we 
 
 heard the half-chime — 
 So Joris broke silence with " Yet 
 
 there is time! " 
 
 At Aerscliot up leaped of a sudden 
 the sun. 
 
 And against him the cattle stood 
 black every one, 
 
 To stare through the mist at us gal- 
 loping past; 
 
 And I saw my stout galloper Roland 
 at last. 
 
 With resolute shoulders, each butting 
 away 
 
 The haze, as some bluff river head- 
 land its spray; 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 71 
 
 And his low head and crest, just one 
 sharp ear bent back 
 
 For my voice, and the other x^ricked 
 out on his track ; 
 
 And one eye's black intelligence, — 
 ever that glance 
 
 O'er its white edge at me, his own 
 master, askance; 
 
 And the thick heavy spume-flakes, 
 which aye and anon 
 
 His fierce lips shook upward in gal- 
 loping on. 
 
 By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried 
 Joris, "Stay spur! 
 
 Your Roos galloped bravely, the 
 fault's not in her; 
 
 We'll remember at Aix" — for one 
 heard the quick wheeze 
 
 Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, 
 and staggering knees. 
 
 And sunk tail, "and horl-ible heave of 
 the flank, 
 
 As down on her haunches she shud- 
 dered and sank. 
 
 So we were left galloping, Joris and I. 
 
 Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud 
 in the sky; 
 
 The broad sun above laughed a piti- 
 less laugh ; 
 
 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, 
 bright stubble like chaff; 
 
 Till over by Delhem a dome-spire 
 sprang white. 
 
 And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for 
 Aix is in sight! " 
 
 " How they'll greet us ! " — and all in 
 a moment his roan 
 
 Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead 
 as a stone ; 
 
 And there was my Roland to bear 
 the whole weight 
 
 Of the news which alone could save 
 Aix from her fate. 
 
 With his nostrils like pits full of 
 blood to the brim. 
 
 And with circles of red for his eye- 
 sockets' rim. 
 
 Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each 
 
 holster let fall. 
 Shook oft' both my jack-boots, let go 
 
 belt and all. 
 
 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, pat- 
 ted his ear, 
 
 Called my Roland his pet-name, my 
 horse without peer — 
 
 Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, 
 any noise, bad or good, 
 
 Till at length into Aix, Roland gal- 
 loped and stood. 
 
 And all I remember is friends flock- 
 ing round. 
 
 As I sate with his head 'twixt my 
 knees on the ground ; 
 
 And no voice but was praising this 
 Roland of mine, 
 
 As I poured down his throat our last 
 measure of wine. 
 
 Which (the burgesses voted by com- 
 mon consent) 
 
 Was no more than his due who 
 brought good news from Ghent. 
 
 IFrom The Ring and The Book:] 
 DREAMS. 
 
 It is the good of dreams — so soon 
 
 they go ! 
 Wake in a horror of heart-beats you 
 
 may — 
 Ciy, " The dead thing will never 
 
 from my thoughts!" 
 Still, a few daylight doses of plain 
 
 life. 
 Cock-crow and sparrow-chirp, or 
 
 bleat and bell 
 Of goats that trot by, tinkling to be 
 
 milked; 
 And when you rub your eyes awake 
 
 and wide. 
 Where is the harm o' the horror? 
 
 Gone ! 
 
 [From The Riii;/ and The Rook.] 
 THE LACK OF CHILDREX. 
 
 What could they be but happy? — 
 
 balanced so, 
 Xor low i' the social scale nor yet too 
 
 high. 
 Xor poor nor richer than comports 
 
 with ease. 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 Nor bright and envied, nor obscure 
 and scorned, 
 
 Nor so young that their pleasures fell 
 too thick. 
 
 Nor old past catching pleasiu'e Mheii 
 it fell, 
 
 Nothing above, below the just degree, 
 
 All at the mean where joy's compo- 
 nents mix. 
 
 So again, in the couple's very souls 
 
 You saw the adequate half with half 
 to match, 
 
 Each having and each lacking some- 
 what, both 
 
 Making a whole that had all and 
 lacked naught; 
 
 The round and sound, in whose com- 
 posure just 
 
 The acquiescent and recipient side 
 
 "Was Pietro's, and the stirring striv- 
 ing one 
 
 Yiolante's: both in union gave the 
 due 
 
 Quietude, enterprise, craving and 
 content. 
 
 Which go to bodily health and peace 
 of mind. 
 
 But, as 'tis said a body, rightly 
 mixed. 
 
 Each element in equipoise, would 
 last 
 
 Too long and live forever, — accord- 
 ingly 
 Holds a germ — sand-grain weight too 
 
 much i' the scale — 
 Ordained to get predominance one 
 
 ilay 
 And so bring all to ruin and release, — 
 Not otherwise a fatal germ lurked 
 
 here: 
 "With mortals much must go, but 
 
 something stays; 
 Nothing will stay of our so happy 
 
 selves." 
 Out of the very ripeness of life's 
 
 core 
 A worm was bred — "Our life shall 
 
 leave no fruit." 
 Enough of l)liss, they thought, could 
 
 bliss bear seed, 
 yield its like, propagate a bliss in 
 
 turn 
 And keep the kind up; not supplant 
 
 themselves 
 But put in evidence, record they 
 
 were, 
 Show them, when done with, i' the 
 
 shape of a child. 
 " 'Tis in a child, man and wife grow 
 
 complete. 
 One flesh: God says so: let him do 
 
 his work! " 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 ''BLESSED ARE THEY 
 MOUHN. " 
 
 THA T 
 
 Oil, deem not they are blest alone 
 Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 
 
 The Power who pitii's man has 
 shown 
 A blessing for the eyes that weep. 
 
 The light of smiles shall fill again 
 The lids that overflow with tears; 
 
 And weary hours of woe and pain 
 Are promises of happier years. 
 
 There is a day of simny rest 
 For every dark and troubled night; 
 
 And grief may bide an evening guest, 
 r>ut joy shall come with early light. 
 
 And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low 
 bier, 
 
 Sheddest the bitter drops of rain, 
 Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
 
 Will give him to thy arms again. 
 
 Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
 Though life its common gifts deny, 
 
 Though" with a pierced and bleeding 
 heart. 
 And spurned of men. he goes to die. 
 
 For Ciod hath marked each sorrowiaig 
 day 
 And numbered every secret tear, 
 And heaven's long age of bliss shall 
 pay 
 Foi' all his children suffer here. 
 
 BRYANT. 
 
 io 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 I GAZED upon the glorious sky 
 
 And the green mountains round ; 
 And thought" that when I came to 
 He 
 At rest within the ground, 
 'Twere pleasant, that in tlowery 
 
 June, 
 When brooks send up a cheerful 
 tune, 
 And groves a joyous sound, 
 The sexton's hand, my grave to 
 
 make, 
 The rich, green mountain turf should 
 break. 
 
 A cell within the frozen mould, 
 A coffin borne through sleet, 
 
 And icy clods above it i-olled, 
 
 While fierce the tempests beat — 
 
 Away! — I will not think of these — 
 
 Bluebe the sky and soft the breeze. 
 Earth green beneath the feet, 
 
 And be the damp mould gently 
 pressed 
 
 Into my narrow place of I'est. 
 
 There through the long, long sum- 
 mer hours 
 The golden light should lie. 
 And thick young herbs and gi-oups of 
 flowers 
 Stand in their beauty by. 
 The oriole should build and tell 
 His love-tale close beside my cell ; 
 
 The idle butterfly 
 Should rest him there, and there be 
 
 heard 
 The housewife bee and humming- 
 bird. 
 
 And what if cheerful shouts at noon 
 
 Come, from the village sent. 
 Or songs of maids, beneath the moon 
 
 With fairy laughter blent ? 
 And what if, in the evening light, 
 Betrothed lovers walk in sight 
 
 Of my low monument '.* 
 1 would tiie lovely scene around 
 Might know no sadder sight or sound. 
 
 1 know. I know I should not see 
 The season's glorious show, 
 
 \or would its brightness shine for 
 
 me, 
 Nor its wild music flow; 
 But if, around my place of sleep. 
 The friends 1 love should come to 
 
 weep, 
 They might not haste to go. 
 Soft airs, and song, and light, and 
 
 bloom, 
 Should keep them lingering by my 
 
 tomb. 
 
 These to their softened hearts should 
 bear 
 
 The thought of what has been. 
 And speak of one who cannot share 
 
 The gladness of the scene ; 
 Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
 The circuit of the sununer hills, 
 
 Is — that his grave is green; 
 And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
 To hear again his living voice. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 Thou unrelenting Past! 
 Strong are the barriers round thy 
 dark domain. 
 And fetters, sure and fast. 
 Hold all that enter thy unbreathing 
 reign. 
 
 Far in thy realm withdrawn 
 Old empires sit in sullenness and 
 gloom. 
 And glorious ages gone 
 Lie deep within the shadow of thy 
 womb. 
 
 Childhood, with all its mirth. 
 Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws 
 us to the ground. 
 And last. Mean's Life on earth, 
 Glide to thy dim dominions, and are 
 bound. 
 
 Thou hast my better years. 
 Thou hast my earlier friends — the 
 good — the kind. 
 Yielded to thee with tears — 
 The venerable form — the exalted 
 mind. 
 
74 
 
 BRYANT. 
 
 My spirit yearns to bring 
 The lost ones back — yearns with de- 
 sire intense, 
 And strnggles hard to wring 
 Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy cap- 
 tives thence. 
 
 In vain — thy gates deny 
 All passage save to those who hence 
 depart; 
 Nor to the streaming eye 
 Thou giv'st them back — nor to the 
 broken heart. 
 
 In thy abysses hide 
 Beauty and excellence unknown — 
 to thee 
 Earth's wonder and her pride 
 Are gathered, as the waters to the 
 sea; 
 
 Labors of good to man. 
 Unpublished charity, unbroken 
 faith.— 
 Love that midst grief began. 
 And grew with years, and "faltered 
 not in death. 
 
 Full many a mighty name 
 Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, un- 
 revered ; 
 With thee are silent fame, 
 Forgotten arts, and wisdom disax> 
 peared. 
 
 Thine for a space are they — 
 Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up 
 at last; 
 
 Thy gates shall yet give way. 
 Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! 
 
 All that of good and fair 
 Has gone into thy womb from earliest 
 time, 
 Shall then come forth to wear 
 The glory and the beauty of its 
 prime. 
 
 They have not perished — no ! 
 Kind words, remembered voices once 
 so sweet. 
 Smiles, radiant long ago. 
 And featiu'es, the great soul's appar- 
 ent seat. 
 
 All shall come back, each tie 
 Of pure affection shall be knit again; 
 
 Alone shall evil die. 
 And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy 
 reign. 
 
 And then shall I behold 
 Him, by whose kind paternal side I 
 sprung. 
 And her, who, still and cold. 
 Fills the next grave — the beautiful 
 and young. 
 
 THAXATOrSIS. 
 
 To him who in the love of Natiu'e 
 
 holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, 
 
 she speaks 
 A various language; for his gayer 
 
 hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a 
 
 smile 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she 
 
 glides 
 Into his daiker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals 
 
 away 
 Their sharpness ere he is aware. 
 
 When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a 
 
 blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and 
 
 pall. 
 And breathless darkness, and the 
 
 narrow house. 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick 
 
 at heart ; — 
 Go forth, under the open sky, and 
 
 list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from 
 
 all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths 
 
 of air — 
 Comes a still voice : Yet a few days 
 
 and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no 
 
 more 
 In all his course; nor yet in the cold 
 
 ground. 
 Where" thy pale form was laid, with 
 
 many tears, 
 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall 
 exist 
 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished 
 thee, shall claim 
 
 Thy growtli, to be resolved to earth 
 again. 
 
 And, lost each human trace, surren- 
 dering up 
 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 
 To mix forever with the elements. 
 
 To be a brother to the insensible 
 rock 
 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the 
 rude swain 
 
 Turns with his share, and treads up- 
 on. The oak 
 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and 
 pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting- 
 place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst 
 
 thou \\ish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou 
 
 shalt lie down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world 
 
 — with kings. 
 The powerful of the earth — the 
 
 wise, the good. 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of agas 
 
 past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The 
 
 hills 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; 
 
 the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness be- 
 tween ; 
 The venerable woods; rivers that 
 
 move 
 In majesty, and the complaining 
 
 brooks 
 That make the meadows green; and, 
 
 poured round all. 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy 
 
 waste, — 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man. The 
 
 golden sun. 
 The planets, all the infinite host of 
 
 heaven. 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of 
 
 death, 
 Through the still. lapse of ages. All 
 
 that tread 
 
 The globe are but a handful to the 
 
 tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. — Take 
 
 the wings 
 Of morning, traverse Barca's desert 
 
 sands. 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous 
 
 woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears 
 
 no sound. 
 Save his own dashings — yet the 
 
 dead are there : 
 And millions in those solittides, since 
 
 first 
 The flight of years began, have laid 
 
 them down 
 In their last sleep; the dead reign 
 
 there alone. 
 So shalt thou rest, and what if thou 
 
 withdraw 
 In silence from the living, and no 
 
 friend 
 Take note of thy departure ? All 
 
 that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay 
 
 will laugh 
 When thou art gone; the solemn 
 
 brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one as before will 
 
 chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these 
 
 shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, 
 
 and shall come. 
 And make their bed with thee. As 
 
 the long train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men. 
 The "youth in life's green spring, and 
 
 he who goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron, 
 
 and maid. 
 And the sweet babe, and the gray- 
 headed man, — 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy 
 
 side, 
 By those who in their turn shall fol- 
 low them. 
 
 So live, that when thy sunnnons 
 
 comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, which 
 
 moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each 
 
 shall take 
 
His chamber in tlie silent halls of 
 death. 
 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave 
 at niglit, 
 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sus- 
 tained and sootlied 
 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach 
 thy grave 
 
 Like one v/ho wraps the drapery of 
 his couch 
 
 About him, and lies down to pleas- 
 ant dreams. 
 
 THE EVENING WIND. 
 
 Spirit that breathest through my 
 
 lattice, thou 
 That coolest the twilight of the 
 
 sultry day, 
 Gratefully flows thy freshness I'ound 
 
 my brow : 
 Thou liast been out upon the 
 
 deep at play, 
 Riding all (lay the wild blue waves 
 
 till now, 
 lioughening their crests, and 
 
 scattering high their spray 
 And swelling the white sail. I wel- 
 come thee 
 To the scorched land, thou wanderer 
 
 of the sea ! 
 
 Nor I alone — a thousand bosoms 
 round 
 Inhale thee in the fulness of de- 
 light; 
 
 And languid forms rise uj), and 
 pulses bound 
 Livelier, at coming of the wind 
 of night; 
 
 And, languishing to hear thy grate- 
 ful sound, 
 Lies the vast inland stretched 
 beyond the sight. 
 
 Go forth into the gathering shade; 
 go forth, 
 
 God's blessing breathed upon the 
 fainting earth ! 
 
 Go, rock the little wood-bird in his 
 nest. 
 Curl the still waters, bright with 
 stars, and rouse 
 
 The wide old wood from his majes- 
 tic rest, 
 Summoning, from the innumer- 
 able boughs. 
 
 The strange, deep harmonies that 
 haunt his breast: 
 Pleasant shall be thy way where 
 meekly bows 
 
 The shutting flower, and darkling 
 waters pass, 
 
 And where the o'ershadowing branch- 
 es sweep the grass. 
 
 The faint old man shall lean his silver 
 
 head 
 To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the 
 
 child asleep, 
 And diy the moistened curls that 
 
 overspread 
 His temples, while his breathing 
 
 grows more deep: 
 And they who stand about the sick 
 
 man's bed, 
 Shall joy to listen to thy distant 
 
 sweep, 
 And softly part his curtains to allow 
 Thy visit, grateful to his burning 
 
 bi'ow. 
 
 Go — but the circle of eternal change. 
 Which is the life of nature, shall 
 
 restore, 
 \yith sounds and scents from all thy 
 
 mighty I'ange, 
 Thee to tliy birthplace of the deep 
 
 once more; 
 Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and 
 
 strange. 
 Shall tell the home-sick mariner 
 
 of the shore ; 
 And, listening to thy murnuu', he 
 
 shall deem 
 He hears the rustling loaf and run- 
 ning stream. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 On, Life, I breathe thee in the breeze, 
 I feel thee bounding in my veins, 
 
 I see thee in these stretching trees. 
 These flowers, this still rock's 
 mossy stains. 
 
^ 
 
 BRYANT. 
 
 This stream of odor flowing by, 
 From clover field and clumps of 
 pine, 
 This music, thrilling all the sky, 
 From all the morning birds, are 
 thine. 
 
 Thou fill'st with joy this little 
 one, 
 That leaps and shouts beside me 
 here, 
 Wliere Isar's clay white rivulets run 
 Through the dark woods like 
 frighted deer. 
 
 Ah! must thy mighty breath, that 
 wakes 
 Insect and bird, and flower and 
 tree, 
 From the low-trodden dust, and makes 
 Their daily gladness, pass from 
 me — 
 
 Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the 
 ground 
 These limbs, now strong, shall creep 
 with pain. 
 And this fair world of sight and 
 sound 
 Seem fading into night again ? 
 
 The things, oh. Life! thou quickenest, 
 all 
 Strive upward towards the broad 
 bright sky. 
 Upward and outward, and they fall 
 Back to earth's bosom when they 
 die. 
 
 All that have borne the touch of 
 death, 
 All that shall live, lie mingled 
 there. 
 Beneath that veil of bloom and 
 breath, 
 That living zone 'twixt earth and 
 air. 
 
 There lies my chamber dark and 
 still. 
 The atoms trampled by my feet. 
 There wait, to take the place I fill 
 In the sweet air and sunshine 
 sweet. 
 
 Well, I have had my turn, have 
 been 
 Raised from the darkness of the 
 clod. 
 And for a glorious moment seen 
 The brightness of the skirts of 
 Goil ; 
 
 And knew the light \\ithin my 
 breast. 
 Though wavering oftentimes and 
 dim. 
 The power, the will, that never 
 rest. 
 And cannot die, were all from Ilim. 
 
 Dear child! I know that thou wilt 
 grieve 
 To see me taken from thy love. 
 Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve. 
 And weep, and scatter flowers 
 above. 
 
 Thy little heart will soon be healed, 
 And being shall be bliss, till thou 
 
 To younger forms of life must yield 
 The ptace thou fill'st with beauty 
 now. 
 
 When we descend to dust again. 
 
 Where will the final dwelling be 
 Of Thought and all its memories 
 then. 
 My love for thee, and thine for 
 me ? 
 
 THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Tiiou blossom bright with autumn 
 
 dew, 
 And colored with the heaven's own 
 
 blue. 
 That openest when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 
 
 Thou comest not when violets lean 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs 
 
 unseen, 
 Or columbines, in purple dressed. 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden 
 
 nest, 
 
Thou waitest late and coin'st alone, 
 
 When woods are bare and birds are 
 flown, 
 
 And frosts and shortening days por- 
 tend 
 
 Tlie aged year is near liis end. 
 
 Then doth tliy sweet and quiet eye 
 Look tlu'ougli its fringes to the sliy, 
 Blue — blue — as if that sliy let fall 
 A flower from its cerulean wall. 
 
 I would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draAV near to me, 
 Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
 May look to heaven as 1 depart. 
 
 THE CROWDED STREET. 
 
 Let me move slowly through tlie 
 street. 
 Filled with an ever-shifting train, 
 Amid the sound of steps that beat 
 The murmuring walks like autumn 
 rain. 
 
 How fast the flitting figures come! 
 
 The mild, the fierce, the stony face; 
 Some bright Avitli tliouglitless smiles, 
 and some 
 Where secret tears have left their 
 trace. 
 
 They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest; 
 
 To halls in whicli the feast is 
 spread ; 
 To chambers where the funeral guest 
 
 In silence sits beside the dead. 
 
 And some to happy homes repair, 
 Wliere children, pressing cheek to 
 cheek. 
 
 With mute caresses shall declare 
 The tenderness they cannot speak. 
 
 And some, who walk in calmness liere, 
 Shall shudder as they reacli the 
 door 
 Where one who made tlieir dwelling 
 dear. 
 Its flower, its light, is seen no 
 more. 
 
 Youth, with pale cheek and slender 
 frame, 
 And dreams of greatness in thine 
 eye! 
 (ioest thou to build an early name, 
 Or early in the task to die ? 
 
 Keen son of trade, with eager l)row ! 
 
 Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 
 Thy golden fortunes, tower they now. 
 
 Or melt the glittering spires in air? 
 
 Who of this crowd to-night shall 
 tread 
 The dance till daylight gleam 
 again '? 
 Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? 
 Who writhe in throes of mortal 
 pain ? 
 
 Some, famine-struck, shall think 
 how long 
 The cold dark hours, how slow the 
 light! 
 And some who flaunt amid the 
 throng. 
 Shall hide in dens of shame to- 
 night. 
 
 Each, where his tasks or pleasures 
 call. 
 They pass and heed each other not. 
 There is who heeds, who holds them 
 all. 
 In His large love and boundless 
 thought. 
 
 These struggling tides of life that 
 seem 
 In wayward, aimless course to 
 tend. 
 Are eddies of the mighty stream 
 That rolls to its appointed end. 
 
 THE FUTURE LIFE. 
 
 How shall I know thee in the sphere 
 which keeps 
 The disembodied spirits of the dead, 
 ^\^len all of thee that time could 
 wither, sleeps 
 And perishes among the dust we 
 tread ? 
 
BRYANT. 
 
 79 
 
 For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless 
 pain 
 If there I meet thy gentle presence 
 not; 
 Nor hear the voice I love, nor read 
 again 
 In thy serenest eyes the tender 
 thought. 
 
 Will not thy own meek heart demand 
 me there ? 
 That heart whose fondest throbs 
 to me were given '? 
 My name on earth was ever in thy 
 prayer, 
 And must thou never utter it in 
 heaven '? 
 
 In meadows fanned by heaven's life- 
 breathing wind, 
 In the resplendence of that glo- 
 rious sphere. 
 And larger movements of the unfet- 
 tered mind, 
 Wilt thou forget the love that 
 joined us here ? 
 
 The love that lived through all the 
 stormy past, 
 And meekly with my harsher na- 
 ture bore, 
 And deeper grew, and tenderer to 
 the last. 
 Shall it expire with life, and be no 
 more ? 
 
 A happier lot than mine, and larger 
 light, 
 Await thee there; for thou hast 
 bowed thy will 
 In cheerfid homage to the rule of 
 right, 
 And lovest all, and renderest good 
 for ill. 
 
 For me, the sordid cares in which I 
 dwell, 
 Shrink and consume my heart, as 
 heat the scroll ; 
 And wrath has left its scar — that 
 fire of hell 
 Has left its frightful scar upon my 
 soul. 
 
 Yet though thou wearest the glory of 
 the sky. 
 Wilt thou not keep the same be- 
 loved name. 
 The same fair thoughtful brow, and 
 gentle eye. 
 Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, 
 yet the same ? 
 
 Shalt thou not teach me, in that 
 calmer home, 
 The wisdom that I learned so ill in 
 this — 
 The wisdom which is love — till I 
 become 
 Thy fit companion in that laud of 
 bliss ? 
 
 THE COXQUEROR'S GRAVE. 
 
 AViTHiN this lowly grave a Conqueror 
 lies, 
 And yet the monument proclaims 
 it not, 
 Nor round the sleeper's name hath 
 chisel wrought 
 The emblems of a fame that never 
 dies. 
 Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf. 
 Twined with the laurel's fair, impe- 
 rial leaf. 
 A simple name alone, 
 To the great world unknown. 
 Is gravenliere, and wild flowers, ris- 
 ing round, 
 Meek meadow-sweet and violets of 
 the ground, 
 Lean lovingly against the humble 
 stone. 
 
 Here in the quiet earth, they laid 
 apart 
 No man of iron mould and bloody 
 hands. 
 Who sought to wreck upon the cow- 
 ering lands 
 The passions that consumed his 
 restless heart; 
 But one of tender spirit and delicate 
 frame, 
 Gentlest in mien and mind. 
 Of gentle womankind, 
 
80 
 
 BRYANT. 
 
 Timidly shrinking from the breath 
 of blame ; 
 
 One in whose eyes the smile of kind- 
 ness made 
 Its haunt, like flowers by sunny 
 brooks in May, 
 
 Yet, at the thought of others' pain, 
 a shade 
 Of sweeter sadness chased the 
 smile away. 
 
 Nor deem that when the hand that 
 
 moidders here 
 Was raised in menace, realms were 
 
 chilled with fear. 
 And armies mustered at the sign, 
 
 as when 
 Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy 
 
 East, — 
 Gray captains leading bands of 
 
 veteran men 
 And fiery youths to be the vulture's 
 
 feast. 
 Not thus were waged the mighty wars 
 
 that gave 
 The victory to her who fills this 
 
 grave; 
 Alone her task was wrought, 
 Alone the battle fought; 
 Through that long strife her constant 
 
 hope was staid 
 On C4od alone, nor looked for other 
 
 aid. 
 
 She met the hosts of sorrow with a 
 look 
 That altered not beneath the fiown 
 they wore. 
 And soon the lowering brood were 
 tamed, and took, 
 Meekly, her gentle rule, and 
 frowned no more. 
 Her soft hand put aside the assaults 
 of wrath, 
 And calndy broke in twain 
 The fiery shafts of pain. 
 And rent the nets of passion from 
 her path. 
 By that victorious hand despair 
 was slain. 
 With love she vanquished hate and 
 
 overcame 
 Evil with good, in her great Master's 
 name. 
 
 Her glory is not of this shatlowy 
 
 state 
 Glory that with the fleeting season 
 
 dies; 
 But when she entered at the sapphire 
 
 gate 
 What joy was radiant in celestial 
 
 eyes! 
 How heaven's bright depths with 
 
 sounding welcomes rung, 
 And flowers of heaven by shining 
 
 hands were flung; 
 And He who, long before. 
 Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, 
 The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect 
 
 sweet. 
 Smiled on the timid stranger from 
 
 his seat; 
 He who returning, glorious, from the 
 
 grave. 
 Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, 
 
 a crouching slave. 
 
 See, as I linger here, the sun grows 
 low; 
 Cool airs are nuu'muring that the 
 night is near. 
 Oh, gentle sleeper, from thy grave I 
 go 
 Consoled though sad, in hope and 
 
 yet in fear. 
 Brief is the time, I know, 
 The warfare scarce begun ; 
 Yet all may win the triumphs thou 
 
 hast won. 
 Still flows the fount whose waters 
 sti'engthened thee ; 
 The victors' names are yet too few 
 to fill 
 Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious 
 armory, 
 That ministered to thee is open 
 still. 
 
 [Frovi an unfinished poem.] 
 AN EVENING HE VERY. 
 
 The summer day is closed — the 
 sim is set; 
 Well they have done their office, 
 those bright hours. 
 
The latest of whose train goes softly 
 
 out 
 In the reil West. The green blade 
 
 of the ground 
 Has risen, and herds have cropped 
 
 it ; the young twig 
 Has spread its plaited tissues to the 
 
 sun ; 
 Flowers of the garden and the waste 
 
 have blown 
 And witliei'ed ; seeds have fallen npon 
 
 the soil, 
 From bursting cells, and in their 
 
 graves await 
 Their resurrection. Insects from 
 
 the pools 
 Have filled the air awhile with hum- 
 ming wings. 
 That now are still forever; painted 
 
 moths 
 Have wandered the blue sky, and 
 
 died again ; 
 The mother-bird hath broken for 
 
 her brooil 
 Their prison shell, or shoved them 
 
 from the nest, 
 Plumed for their earliest flight. In 
 
 bright alcoves. 
 In woodland cottages with barky 
 
 walls, [town. 
 
 In noisome cells of the tumultuous 
 Mothers have clasped with joy the 
 
 new-born babe. 
 Graves by the lonely forest, by the 
 
 shore 
 Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
 Of the thronged city, have been hol- 
 lowed out 
 And filled, and closed. This day 
 
 hatli parted friends 
 That ne'er before were parted; it 
 
 hath knit 
 New friendships; it hath seen the 
 
 maiden pliglit 
 Her faith, and trust her peace to him 
 
 who long 
 Had wooed ; and it hath heard, from 
 
 lips M'hicli late 
 Were eloquent of love, the first harsh 
 
 word. 
 That told the wedded one, her peace 
 
 was flown. 
 Farewell to the sweet sunshine! 
 
 One glad day 
 
 Is added now to childhood's merry 
 
 days. 
 And one calm day to those of quiet 
 
 age. • 
 Still the fleet hours run on; and as I 
 
 lean, 
 Amid the thickening darkness, lamps 
 
 are lit. 
 By those who watcli the dead, and 
 
 those who twine 
 Flowers for the bride. The mother 
 
 from the eyes 
 Of her sick infant shades the pain- 
 ful light. 
 And sadly listens to his quick-drawn 
 
 breath. 
 
 O thou great Movement of the 
 Universe, 
 
 Or change, or flight of Time — for 
 ye are one ! 
 
 That bearest, silently, this visible 
 scene 
 
 Into night's shadow and the stream- 
 ing rays 
 
 Of starlight, whither art thou bear- 
 ing me ? 
 
 I feel the mighty current sweep me 
 on. 
 
 Yet know not whither. Man fore- 
 tells afar 
 
 The courses of the stars; the very 
 hour 
 
 He knows when they shall darken or 
 grow bright ; 
 
 Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and 
 of Death 
 
 Come unforewarned. Who next, of 
 those I love. 
 
 Shall pass from life, or sadder yet, 
 shall fall 
 
 From virtue ? Strife with foes, or 
 bitterer strife 
 
 With friends, or shame and general 
 scorn of men — 
 
 Which who can bear ? — or the fierce 
 rack of pain. 
 
 Lie they within my path ? Or shall 
 the years 
 
 Push me, with soft and inoffensive 
 pace, 
 
 Into the stilly twilight of mv 
 age? 
 
 Or do the portals of another life 
 
82 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Even now, while 1 am glorying in my 
 
 strength, 
 
 Impend around me? OI beyond 
 that bourne, 
 
 In the vast cycle of being which be- 
 gins 
 
 At that broad threshold, with what 
 fairer forms 
 
 .Shall the great law of change and 
 progress clothe 
 
 Its workings? Gently — so have 
 
 good men taught — 
 Gently, and without grief, the old 
 
 shall glide 
 Into the new; the eternal flow of 
 
 things, 
 Like a bright river of the fields of 
 
 heaven. 
 Shall journey onward in perpetual 
 
 peace. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 TO MAR y IN HE A VEN. 
 
 Tiiou ling'ring star, with less'ning 
 ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usherest in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hearest thou the groans that rend 
 his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget ? 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove. 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met. 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports 
 past; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 
 Ah! little thought we 'twas our 
 last; 
 
 Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 
 O'erhmig with wild woods, thicken- 
 ing green ; 
 'J'lie fragrant birch, and hawthorn 
 hoar. 
 Twined amorous i-ound the raptured 
 scene. 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be 
 prest. 
 The birds sang love on every 
 spray, — 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 I'roclaimed the speed of winged 
 dav. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory 
 wakes, 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 Time but the impression deeper 
 makes. 
 As streams their channels deeper 
 wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy blissful place of 
 rest ? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 Hearest thou the groans that rend 
 his breast ? 
 
 FOR A- THAT AND A' THAT. 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty, 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that ? 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by. 
 AVe dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a" that, and a' that. 
 
 Our toils obscure, and a' that : 
 
 The rank is but the guinea stamp; 
 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What tho' on hamely fare we 
 dine. 
 Wear hodden-gray, and a' that ; 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
 wine, 
 A man's a inan for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that : 
 The honest man, tho' e'er sae 
 poor. 
 Is kinsr o' men for a' that. 
 
 1^ 
 
BURNS. 
 
 83 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 \Vha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
 Tlio* hundreds worship at his word. 
 He's but a coof for a' tliat: 
 For a' that and a' that, 
 
 His ribband, star, and a' tliat, 
 Tlie man of independent mind. 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A iirince can mak a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, and a' that ; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 (Juid faith, he raauna fa' that! 
 For a' tliat, and a' that. 
 
 Their dignities, and a' that, 
 The pith o' sense, and pride o' 
 worth. 
 Are higher ranks than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may, 
 
 As come it will for a' that. 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the 
 earth' 
 May bear the gree, and a" that 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 It's coming yet, for a' that; 
 
 That man toman, the warld o'er 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
 STANZAS IN PROSPECT OF DEATH. 
 
 ■\ViiY am 1 loth to leave this earthly 
 scene ! 
 Have I so found it full of pleasing 
 charms ? 
 
 home drops of joy with draughts of 
 ill between: 
 
 Some gleams of sunshine 'mid re- 
 newing stomis ; 
 
 Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 
 Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark 
 abode ? 
 
 For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in 
 arms: 
 I tremble to approach an angry 
 God. 
 
 And justly smart beneath his sin- 
 avenging rod. 
 
 Fain would 1 say, "Forgive my foul 
 offence! " 
 Fain promise nevei' more to disobey ; 
 
 But, should my Author health again 
 dispense, 
 Again I might desert fair virtue's 
 way ; 
 Again in folly's path might go astray; 
 Again exalt the brute, and sink 
 the man; 
 Then how should 1 for heavenly mer- 
 cy pray. 
 Who act so counter heavenly mer- 
 cy's plan ? 
 Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to 
 temptation ran ? 
 
 O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 
 If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
 Thy nod can make the tempest cease 
 to blow. 
 And still the tumult of the raging 
 sea; 
 With that controlling pow'r assist 
 ev'n me, 
 Those headlong furious passions to 
 confine. 
 For all unfit I feel my powers to be, 
 To rule their torrent in the allowed 
 line; 
 Oh, aid me with thy help, Onuiip- 
 otence Divine! 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
 
 Ou turning one down with the plough, in 
 April, 1786. 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour: 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem : 
 To spare thee now is past my power, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet. 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet ! 
 Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 
 
 Wi' spreckl'd breast. 
 When upward-springing, blythe, to 
 greet 
 
 The purpling east. 
 
 Gauld blew tlie bitter-biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 
BURNS. 
 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm, 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our gardens 
 
 yield 
 High sheltering woods and wa's maun 
 
 shield, 
 But thou beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod, or stane, 
 Adorns the histie stibble-field, 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 
 Thy snawy bosom sunward spread. 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming heatl 
 
 In humble guise; 
 Btit now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid, 
 Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! 
 By love's simplicity betrayed, 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard. 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starred I 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore. 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow 
 hard. 
 
 And whelm him o'er ! 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is given. 
 Who long with wants and woes has 
 
 striven, 
 By liinuan pride or cunning driven 
 
 To misery's brink, 
 Till, wrenched of every stay but 
 heaven. 
 
 He, ruined, sink! 
 
 Even thou who mournest the daisy's 
 
 fate, 
 That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
 Stern Kuin's ploughshare drives, 
 elate. 
 
 Full on thy bloom. 
 Till, crushed beneath the furrow's 
 weight 
 
 Shall be thy doom ! 
 
 JOH^r A^TDEJiSOX, MV JO. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent, 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is held, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither; 
 And monie a canty day, .John, 
 
 We've hail wi' ane anither: 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hanil in hand we'll go. 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 FARE W EEL TO NAXCY. 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 
 
 Ae fareweel, alas, forever! 
 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge 
 
 thee ! 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 
 
 thee !" 
 Who shall say that fortune grieves 
 
 him, 
 While the star of hope she leaves 
 
 him ! 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights nie; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
 Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
 But to see her, was to love her; 
 Love but her, and love for ever. 
 Had we never loved sae kindly. 
 Had we never loved sae blindly, 
 Never met — or never parted, 
 AVe had ne'er been broken hearted! 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
 Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! 
 Deep in heart- wnmg tears I'll pledge 
 thee, [thee. 
 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage 
 
BUBNS. 
 
 [From To the Unco Guld.] 
 GOD, THE ONLY JUST JUDGE. 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man, 
 
 Still gentler sister woman ; 
 Tlio' they may gang a kennie wrang, 
 
 To step aside is human: 
 One point nuist still be greatly dark, 
 
 The moving 117/?/ they do it; 
 And just as lamely can ye mark 
 
 How far perhaps they rue it. 
 
 Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 
 
 Decidedly can try us, [tone. 
 
 He knows each chord — its various 
 
 Each spring — its various bias: 
 Then at the balance let's be mute, 
 
 We never can adjust it; 
 What's done we partly may compute, 
 
 But know not what's resisted. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams 
 around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your 
 flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfald her robes, 
 
 And there the langest tarry ; 
 For there I took my last fareweel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green 
 birk. 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
 As underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasped her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours, on angel wings, 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
 For dear to me, as light and life. 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 W^i' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace. 
 
 Our parting was f u' tender ; 
 And, ijledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder; 
 But oh! fell death's untimely frost. 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early I 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the 
 clay. 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary. 
 
 Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling 
 glance. 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly! 
 And mouldering now in silent dust. 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Sliall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 
 
 Made fields and forests bare, 
 One evening, as 1 wandered forth 
 
 Along the banks of Ayi', 
 I spied a man, whose aged step 
 
 Seemed weary, worn with care; 
 His face was furrowed o'er with years, 
 
 And hoary was his hair. 
 
 Young stranger, whither wanderest 
 thou ? 
 
 Began the reverend sage ; 
 Does thirst of wealth thy step con- 
 strain. 
 
 Or youthful pleasure's rage ? 
 Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, 
 
 Too soon thou hast began 
 To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
 
 The miseries of man. 
 
 The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
 
 Outspreading far and wide. 
 Where hundreds labor to support 
 
 A haughty lordling's pride; 
 Fve seen yon weary winter-sun 
 
 Twice forty times return ; 
 .Vnd every time has added proofs 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 O man ! while in thy early years, 
 
 How prodigal of time ! 
 Misspending all thy precious hours. 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime! 
 Alternate follies take the sway; 
 
 Licentious passions burn ; 
 Which tenfold force give nature's law. 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
i 
 
 H6 
 
 BUSHNELL. 
 
 Look not alone on youthful prime, 
 
 Or manhood's active might; 
 Man then is useful to his kind, 
 
 ■Supported is his right. 
 But see him on the edge of life, 
 
 With cares and sorrows worn ; 
 Then age and want, oh ! ill-matched 
 pair! 
 
 Show man was made to mourn. 
 
 A few seem favorites of fate. 
 
 In Pleasure's lap carest; 
 Yet, think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 But, oh ! what crowds in every land 
 
 Are wretched and forlorn. 
 Tliro' weary life this lesson learn. 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 Many and sharp the numerous ills 
 
 Inwoven with our frame ! 
 More pointed still we make ourselves, 
 
 Kegret, remorse, and shame! 
 And man, whose heaven-erected face 
 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 Man's inhumanity to man 
 
 Makes countless thousands mourn ! 
 
 See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight. 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile. 
 Who begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil ; 
 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn. 
 Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 
 
 And helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 If I'm designed yon lordling's slave — 
 
 By nature's law designed, — 
 Why was an independent wish 
 
 E'er planted in my mind ? 
 If not, why am 1 subject to 
 
 His cruelty or scorn ? 
 Or why has man the will and power 
 
 To make his fellow mourn '? 
 
 Yet, let not this too much, my son. 
 
 Disturb thy youthful breast: 
 This partial view of humankind 
 
 Is surely not the last ! 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man 
 
 Had never, sure, been born. 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 
 To comfort those that mourn ! 
 
 O death! the poor man's dearest 
 friend. 
 
 The kindest and the best ! 
 Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
 
 Are laid with thee at rest ! 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow 
 
 From pomp and pleasure torn ; 
 But, oh! a blest relief to those 
 
 That wear>--laden mourn ! 
 
 Louisa Bushnell. 
 
 DELA y. 
 
 Taste the sweetness of delaying, 
 Till the hour shall come for saying 
 
 That I love you with my soul ; 
 Have you never thought your heart 
 Finds a something in the part. 
 
 It would miss from out the whole? 
 
 In this rosebud you have given. 
 Sleeps that perfect rose of heaven 
 
 That in Fancy's garden blows; 
 W^ake it not by touch or sound, 
 Lest, perchance, 'twere lost, not 
 found. 
 
 In the opening of the rose. 
 
 Dear to me is this reflection 
 Of a fair and far perfection, 
 
 Shining through a veil undrawn; 
 Ask no question, then, of fate; 
 Yet a little longer wait. 
 
 In the beauty of the dawn. 
 
 Through our mornings, veiled and 
 
 tender. 
 Shines a day of golden si)len(lor, 
 
 Never yet fulfilled by day; 
 Ah! if love be made complete. 
 Will it, can it, be so sweet 
 
 As this ever sweet delay? 
 
BUTLER. 
 
 87 
 
 Samuel Butler. 
 
 Love is too great a happiness 
 For wretched mortals to possess ; 
 For could it hold inviolate 
 Against those cruelties of fate 
 Which all felicities below 
 By rigid laws are subject to. 
 It would become a bliss too hitrh 
 
 For perishing mortality ; 
 Translate to earth the joys above ; 
 For nothing goes to Heaven but Love. 
 All love at first, like generous wrne, 
 Ferments and frets until 'tis fine; 
 For when 'tis settled on the lee, 
 And from the impurer matter free. 
 Becomes the richer still, the older, 
 And proves the pleasanter, the colder. 
 
 William Allen Butler. 
 
 WORK AND WOUSHIP. 
 " Laborare est orare. " — St. Augitstixe. 
 
 Charlemagne, the mighty mon- 
 arch. 
 As through Metten AYood he 
 strayed, 
 Fomid the holy hermit, Hutto, 
 Toiling in the forest glade. 
 
 In his hand the woodman's hatchet. 
 
 By his side the knife and twine. 
 There he cut and bound the faggots 
 
 From the gnarled and stunted pine. 
 
 Well the monarch knew the hermit 
 For his pious Avorks and cares, 
 
 And the wonders which had followed 
 From his vigils, fasts, and prayers. 
 
 Much he marvelled now to see him 
 Toiling thus, with axe and cord ; 
 
 And he cried in scorn, " O Father, 
 Is it thus you serve the Lord ? " 
 
 But the hermit resting neither 
 Hand nor hatchet, meekly said : 
 
 " He who does no daily labor 
 May not ask for daily bread. 
 
 " Think not that my graces shunber 
 While I toil throughout the day : 
 
 For all honest work is worship. 
 And to labor is to pray. 
 
 "■ Think not that the heavenly bless- 
 ing 
 
 From the workman's hand removes; 
 Who does best his task appointed. 
 
 Him the Master most api) roves. "' 
 
 While he spoke the hermit, pausing 
 For a moment, raised his eyes 
 
 Where the overhanging branches 
 Swayed beneath the sunset skies. 
 
 Through the dense and vaulted for- 
 est 
 
 Straight the level simbeam came. 
 Shining like a gilded rafter. 
 
 Poised upon a sculptured frame. 
 
 Suddenly, with kindling features. 
 While he breathes a silent prayer, 
 
 See, the hermit throws his hatchet, 
 Lightly, upward in the air. 
 
 Bright the Mell-worn steel is gleam- 
 ing, 
 
 As it flashes through the shade, 
 And descending, lo! the sunbeam 
 
 Holds it dangling by the blade ! 
 
 "See, my son," exclaimed the her- 
 mit, — 
 
 " See the token heaven has sent; 
 Thus to humble, patient effort 
 
 Faith's miraculous aid is lent. 
 
BUTLER. 
 
 Toiling, hoping, often fainting, 
 
 As we labor, Love Divine 
 Through the shadows pours its sun- 
 light, 
 Crowns the work, vouchsafes the 
 sign!" 
 
 Homeward, slowly, went the mon- 
 arch. 
 
 Till he reached his palace hall, 
 Where he strode among his warriors. 
 
 He the bravest of them all. 
 
 Soon the Benedictine Abbey 
 Rose beside the hermit's cell ; 
 
 He, by royal hands invested, 
 Ruled, as abbot, long and well. 
 
 Now beside the rushing Danube 
 Still its ruined walls remain. 
 
 Telling of the hermit's patience. 
 And the zeal of Charlemagne. 
 
 THE BUSTS OF GOETHE AND 
 SCHILLER. 
 
 This is Goethe, with a forehead 
 Like the fabled front of Jove; 
 
 In its massive lines the tokens 
 More of majesty than love. 
 
 This is Schiller, in whose features. 
 With their passionate calm regard. 
 
 We behold the true ideal 
 Of the high, heroic bard, 
 
 Whom the inward world of feeling 
 And the outward world of sense 
 
 To the endless labor summon, 
 And the endless recompense. 
 
 These are they, sublime and silent. 
 From whose living lips have rung 
 
 Words to be remembered ever 
 In the noble German tongue; 
 
 Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling 
 Into loftiest speech or song, 
 
 Still through all the listening ages 
 Pours its torrent swift and strong. 
 
 As to-day in sculptured marble 
 Side by side the poets stand. 
 
 So tbey stood in life's great strug- 
 gle? 
 Side by side and hand to hand, 
 
 In the ancient German city. 
 Dowered with many a deathless 
 name, 
 
 Where they dwelt and toiled together, 
 Sharing each the others fame. 
 
 One till evening's lengthening shad- 
 ows 
 
 Gently stilled his faltering lips, 
 But the other's sun at noonday 
 
 Shrouded in a swift eclipse. 
 
 There their names are household 
 treasures. 
 
 And the simplest child you meet 
 Guides you where the house of Goethe 
 
 Fronts upon the quiet street ; 
 
 And, hard by, the modest mansion 
 Where full many a heart has felt 
 
 Memories uncounted clustering 
 Round the words, "Here Schiller 
 dwelt." 
 
 In the churchyard Ijoth are biu'ied, 
 Straight beyond the narrow gate, 
 
 In the mausoleum sleeping. 
 With Duke Charles, in sculptured 
 state. 
 
 For the monarch loved the poets. 
 Called them to him from afar. 
 
 Wooed them near his court to lin- 
 ger, 
 And the planets sought the star. 
 
 He, his larger gifts of fortune 
 With their larger fame to blend, 
 
 Living counted it an honor 
 That they named him as their 
 friend ; 
 
 Dreading to be all forgotten, 
 Still their greatness to divide. 
 
 Dying prayed to have his poets 
 Buried one on either side. 
 
BUTTS — BUTTERWURTH. 
 
 89 
 
 Bui this suited not the gold-laceil 
 
 Usliers of the royal tomb, 
 Wliere the princely house of Weimar 
 
 ttlmubered iu majestic gloom. 
 
 So they ranged the coffins justly, 
 Each with fitting rank and stamp, 
 
 And with shows of court precedence 
 Mocked the grave's sepulchral 
 damp. 
 
 Fitly now the clownish sexton 
 Narrow courtier-rules rebukes ; 
 
 Plrst he shows the grave of Goethe, 
 bchillers then, and last — the 
 Duke's. 
 
 Vainly 'midst these truthful shadows 
 Pride would flaunt her painted wing; 
 
 Here the monarch waits in silence, 
 And ihe poet is the king! 
 
 Mary F. Butts. 
 
 OTHEn MOTH E lis. 
 
 Mother, in the sunset glow, 
 Crooning ehild-songs sweet and low, 
 Eyes soft shining, heart at rest, 
 Kose-leaf cheek against thy breast. 
 
 Thinkest thou of those who weep 
 O'er their babies fast asleep 
 Where the evening dews lie wet 
 On their broidered coverlet, 
 
 Whose cold cradle is the grave. 
 Where wild roses nod and wave, 
 Taking for their blossoms fair 
 What a spirit once did wear ? 
 
 Mother, crooning soft and low, 
 Let not all thy fancies go, 
 Like swift birds, to the blue skies 
 Of thy darling's happy eyes. 
 
 Count thy baby's curls for beads. 
 As a sweet saint intercedes. 
 But on some fair ringlet's gold 
 Let a tender prayer be told, 
 
 For the mother, all alone. 
 Who for singing maketh moan, 
 Who doth ever vainly seek 
 Dimpled arms and velvet cheek. 
 
 Hezekiah Butterworth. 
 
 THE FOUKTAIX OF YOUTH. 
 
 A di;eam of roNCE de leon. 
 
 A STORY of Ponce de Leon, 
 
 A voyager withered and old. 
 Who came to the sunny Antilles, 
 
 In quest of a country of gold, 
 lie was wafted past islands of si^ices. 
 
 As bright as the emerald seas. 
 Where all the forests seem singing. 
 
 So thick were the birds on the trees ; 
 The sea was clear as the azure. 
 
 And so deep and so pure was the sky 
 That the jasper-walled city seemed 
 shining 
 
 Just out of tlie reach of the eye. 
 
 By day his light canvas he shifted. 
 And round strange harbors and 
 bars : 
 By niglit, on the full tides he drifted, 
 'Neath the low-hanging lamps of 
 the stars. [sunset, 
 
 'Neath the glimmering gates of the 
 In the twilight empurpled and dim. 
 The sailors uplifted their voices, 
 
 And sang to the Virgin a hymn. 
 ' ' Thank the Lord ! "said De Leon, the 
 sailor, 
 At tlie close of the rounded refrain ; 
 " Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who 
 blesses 
 The ocean-swept banner of S^iain I 
 
90 
 
 BUTTERWUMTH. 
 
 The shadowy world is behind us, 
 
 The shining Cipango before ; 
 Each morning llie sun rises brigliter 
 
 On ocean, and island, and shore. 
 And still shall our spirits grow lighter, 
 
 As prospects more glowing unfold; 
 Then on, merry men! to Cipango, 
 
 To the west, and the regions of 
 gold!" 
 
 There came to De Leon the sailor. 
 
 Some Indian sages, who told 
 Of a region so bright that the waters 
 
 Were sprinkled with islands of gold. 
 And they added: " The leafy Bimini, 
 
 A fair land of grottos and bowers 
 Is there; and a wonderful fountain 
 
 Upsprings from its gardens of 
 flowers. 
 That fountain gives life to the dying, 
 
 And youth to the aged restores : 
 They flourish in beauty eternal, 
 
 Who set but their fee^ on its 
 shores!" 
 Then answered De Leon, the sailor: 
 
 " I am withered, and wrinkled, and 
 old; 
 I would rather discover that fountain 
 
 Than a country of diamonds and 
 gold." 
 
 Away sailed De Leon, the sailor; 
 
 Away with a wonderful glee. 
 Till the birds were more rare in the 
 azure. 
 
 The dolphins more rare in the sea. 
 Away from the shady Bahamas. 
 
 Over waters no sailor had seen. 
 Till again on his wandering vision. 
 
 Rose clustering islands of green. 
 Still onward he sped till the breezes 
 
 Were laden with odors, and lo! 
 A country embedded witli flowers, 
 
 A country with rivers aglow! 
 More bright than the sunny Antilles, 
 
 More fair than the shady Azor^^.^. 
 "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, 
 the sailor. 
 
 As feasted his eye on the shores, 
 '■ We have come to a region, my 
 brothers, 
 
 More lovely than earth, of a truth; 
 And here is the life-giving fountain, — 
 
 Tlie l)(\'iutifu] Fountain of Youth." 
 
 Then landed De Leon, the sailor. 
 
 Unfurled his old banner, and sung; 
 But he felt very wrinkled and with- 
 ered. 
 All around was so fresh and so 
 young. 
 The palms, ever-verdant, were bloom- 
 ing, 
 Their blossoms e'en margined the 
 seas; 
 O'er the streams of the forests bright 
 flowers 
 Hmig deep from the branches of 
 trees. 
 "Praise the Lord!"' sang De Leon, 
 the sailor; 
 His heart was with rapture aflame; 
 And he said: "Be the name of this 
 region 
 By Florida given to fame. 
 'Tis a fair, a delectable country. 
 
 More lovely than earth, of a truth ; 
 I soon shall ^^''^I'take of the foun- 
 tain, — 
 The beautiful Fomitain of Youth ! " 
 
 But wandered De Leon, the sailor. 
 
 In search of the fountain in vain; 
 No waters were there to restore him 
 
 To freshness and beauty again. 
 And his anchor he lifted, and uuu-- 
 nuu'ed. 
 As the tears gathered fast in his eye, 
 " I must leave this fair land of the 
 flowers. 
 Go back o'er the ocean, and die," 
 Then back by the dreary Tortugas, 
 
 And back by the shady Azores, 
 lie was borne on the storm-smitten 
 ■waters 
 To the calm of his own native 
 shores. 
 And that he grew older and older. 
 
 His footsteps enfeebled gave proof. 
 Still he thirsted in dreams for the 
 fountain, 
 The beautiful Fountain of Youth. 
 
 One day the old sailor lay dying 
 On tlie shores of a tropical isle. 
 
 And his heart was enkindled with 
 
 rapture; | smile. 
 
 And his face lighted up with a 
 
BYIWK 
 
 91 
 
 He thought of the sunny Antilles, 
 
 He thought of the shady Azores, 
 He thought of the dreamy Bahamas, 
 
 He thought of fair Florida's shores. 
 And, when in his mind he passed over 
 
 His wonderful travels of old. 
 He thought of the heavenly country, 
 
 Of the city of jasper and gold. 
 " Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, 
 the sailor, [the truth, 
 
 " Thank the Lord for the light of 
 1 now am approaching the fountain, 
 
 The beautiful Fountain of Youth." 
 
 The cabin was silent: at twilight 
 They heard the birds singing a 
 psalm. 
 And the wind of the ocean low sigh- 
 ing 
 Through groves of the orange and 
 palm. 
 The sailor still lay on his pallet, 
 'Neath the low-hanging vines of 
 the roof; 
 His soul had gone forth to dis- 
 cover 
 The beautiful Fountain of Youth. 
 
 Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel). 
 
 I'HOMETIIEUS. 
 
 Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 
 
 The sufferings of mortality. 
 
 Seen in their sad reality. 
 Were not as things that gods despise; 
 What was thy pity's recompense ? 
 A silent suffering, and intense; 
 The rock, the vultm-e, and the 
 
 chain. 
 All that the proud can feel of pain. 
 The agony they do not show 
 The suffocating sense of woe, 
 
 Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
 And then is jealous lest the sky 
 Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
 
 Until its voice is echoless. 
 
 Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
 Between the suffering and the 
 
 will. 
 Which torture where they cannot 
 
 kill; 
 And the inexorable heaven, 
 And the deaf tyranny of fate, 
 The ruling principle of hate, 
 Which for its pleasure doth create 
 Tlie things it may annihilate, 
 Refused tliee even the boon to die; 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it 
 
 well. 
 
 All that the Thunderer wrung from 
 
 thee 
 AYas but the menace which flung 
 
 back 
 On him the torments of thy rack : 
 The fate thou didst so well fore- 
 see. 
 But would not to appease him tell; 
 And in thy silence was his sentence, 
 And in his soul a vain repentance. 
 And evil dread so ill dissembleil 
 That in his hand the lightnings trem- 
 bled. 
 
 Thy godlike crime was to be kind. 
 To render with thy precept less 
 The sum of human wretchedness. 
 
 And strengthen man with his own 
 mind ; 
 
 But baffled as thou wert from high, 
 
 Still in thy patient energy. 
 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 Of thine impenetrable spirit, 
 
 Which earth and heaven could not 
 convulse, 
 A mighty lesson we inherit: 
 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 To mortals of their fate and force; 
 
 Like thee, man is in part divine, 
 
 A troubled stream from a pure 
 source ; 
 
 And man in portions can foresee 
 
His own funereal destiny ; 
 His wretcliedness, and liis resistance, 
 And Ills sad unallied existence : 
 To whicli his si^irit may opiDose 
 Itself — and equal to all -woes, 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense. 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 Its own concentered recompense, 
 Triumphant where it dares defy. 
 And making death a victory ! 
 
 WHEN COLDNESS Jl'IiAPS THIS 
 SUFFERING CLAY. 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering 
 clay, 
 Ah! whither strays the immortal 
 mind ? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stray, 
 But leaves its darkened dust be- 
 hind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 By steps each planet's heavenly 
 way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, undecayed, 
 
 A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 All, all in earth, or skies displayed. 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall: 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 
 80 darkly of departed years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 
 And all that was, at once appears. 
 
 Before Creation peopled earth. 
 Its eyes shall roll through chaos 
 back; 
 And where the f urtliest heaven had 
 birth. 
 The spirit trace its rising track, 
 And where the future mars or makes. 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
 While sun is quenched or system 
 breaks. 
 Fixed in its own eternity. 
 
 Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
 It lives all passionless and piire: 
 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year; 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 
 Away, away, without a wing. 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thoughts 
 shall fly; 
 
 A nameless and eternal thing. 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS. 
 
 Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 
 
 Whose tearful beam glows tremu- 
 lously far, 
 
 That show'st the darkness thou canst 
 not dispel, 
 
 How like art thou to joy remembered 
 well ! 
 
 So gleams the past, the light of other 
 days, 
 
 Which shines, but warms not with 
 its powerless rays ; 
 
 A night-beam sorrow watches to be- 
 hold. 
 
 Distinct, but distant — clear — but 
 oh, how cold! 
 
 FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 Fare thee well! and if for ever, 
 Still for ever, fare tliee v^ell ; 
 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 
 AVould that breast were bared before 
 thee 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain. 
 While that placid sleep came o'er 
 thee. 
 Which thou ne'er canst know 
 again : 
 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced 
 over. 
 
 Every inmost thought could show! 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 
 'Twas not well to siDurn it so. 
 
 Through the world for this commend 
 thee — 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow. 
 Even its praises must offend thee, 
 
 Founded on another's woe: 
 
BYRON. 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me, 
 Could no other arm be found, 
 
 Than the one which once embraced 
 me. 
 To inflict a cureless wound '? 
 
 Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 Hearts can thus be torn away : 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth — 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, 
 beat ; 
 And the undying thought which 
 paineth 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 Than the wail above the dead ; 
 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 Wake us from a widowed bed. 
 
 And when thou wouldst solace gather. 
 When our child's first accents 
 flow. 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" 
 Though his care she must forego ? 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee, 
 When her lip to thine is pressed, 
 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless 
 thee, 
 Think of him thy love had blessed ! 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 Those thou never more mayst see. 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 All my faults perchance thou know- 
 est. 
 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
 
 AVither, yet with thee they go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been*'shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could 
 bow, 
 Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now : 
 
 But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
 Words from me are vainer still; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way without the will. 
 
 Fare thee well! — thus disunited, 
 Torn from eveiy nearer tie, 
 
 Seared in heart, and lone and blighted, 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 SOXNET OX CHILL OX. 
 
 Eterxal spirit of the chainless 
 mind ! 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! 
 
 thou art, 
 For there thy habitation is the 
 heart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone 
 
 can bind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are 
 consigned — 
 To fetters, and the damj) vault's 
 
 dayless gloom, 
 Their country conquers with their 
 martyrdom. 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on 
 
 every wind. 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 
 'twas trod. 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement 
 were a sod. 
 By Bonnivard ! — May none those 
 
 marks efface ; 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 SHE WALKS TX BEAUTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies : 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meets in her aspect and her eyes: 
 
 Thus mellowed to that tender light 
 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less, 
 Had half impaired the nameless 
 grace, 
 
94 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress, 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet ex- 
 press, 
 
 How pure, how clear their dwelling- 
 place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that 
 brow, 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that 
 glow, 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 A heart whose love is innocent! 
 
 INSCRIPTIOX 
 
 ox THE MONl'MENT OF THE AUTHOR'S 
 DOU BOATSWAIN. 
 
 When some proud son of man returns 
 
 to earth. 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by 
 
 birth. 
 The sculptor's art exalts the pomp 
 
 of woe, 
 And storied urns record avIio rests 
 
 below ; 
 AVlien all is done, upon the tomb is 
 
 seen, 
 Xot what he was, but what he should 
 
 have been. 
 But the poor dog, in life the firmest 
 
 friend, 
 Tlie first to welcome, foremost to de- 
 fend. 
 Whose honest heart is still his mas- 
 ter's own, 
 Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for 
 
 him alone, 
 Unhonored falls, imnoticed all his 
 
 worth, 
 Denied in heaven the soul he held on 
 
 earth; 
 While man, vain insect! hopes to be 
 
 forgiven. 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive 
 
 heaven. 
 O man I thou feeble tenant of an 
 
 honi'. 
 
 Debased by slavery, or corrupt by 
 
 power, 
 Who knows thee well must quit thee 
 
 Avith disgust. 
 Degraded mass of animated dust! 
 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a 
 
 cheat, 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, tliy words de- 
 ceit! 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
 Each kindred brute might bid thee 
 
 blush for shame. 
 Ye ! who perchance behold this simple 
 
 urn, 
 Pass on — it honors none you wish 
 
 to mourn ; 
 To mark a friend's remains these 
 
 stones arise ; 
 I never knew but one — and here he 
 
 lies. 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart I 
 Or, since that has left my breast. 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 
 £ui(7 Hoi, eras aymru).* 
 
 By those tresses miconfined, 
 Wooed by each iEgean Avind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheek's blooming tinge; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 
 Sai»7 fiou, (TQj ayaTTui. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste; 
 By that zone-encircled waist; 
 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 AVhat words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe, 
 
 Tiir; /lov, od; ayairCi, 
 
 'Sla.id of Athens ! I am gone : 
 Think of me, sweet! when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 
 Soil; fioTi, (7(5f aymrw. 
 * Z6e moil, sas agapo, .\fi/ life, I lore i/ou. 
 
BYRON. 
 
 95 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 My sister! my sweet sister! if a name 
 
 Dearer and purer were, it should l)e 
 thine; 
 
 Mountains and seas divide us, hut 1 
 claim 
 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer 
 mine : 
 
 (4o where I will, to me thou art the 
 same — 
 
 A loved regret which I would not re- 
 sign. 
 
 There yet are two things in my des- 
 tiny,— 
 
 A world to roam through, and a home 
 with thee. 
 
 The first were nothing — had I still 
 
 the last. 
 It were the haven of my happiness; 
 But other claims and other ties thou 
 
 hast, 
 And mine is not the wish to make 
 
 them less. 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, 
 
 and past 
 Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; 
 IJeversed for him our grandsire'sfate 
 
 of yore, — 
 lie had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath 
 been 
 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 
 Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, 
 
 I have sustained my share of worldly 
 shocks. 
 
 The fault was mine; nor do I seek to 
 screen, 
 
 My errors. with defensive paradox ; 
 
 I have been cimning in mine over- 
 throw. 
 
 The careful jiilot of my proper woe. 
 
 Mine were my faults, and mine be 
 
 their reward. 
 My whole life was a contest, since 
 
 the day 
 That gave me being, gave me that 
 
 which marred 
 The gift, — a fate, or will, that walked 
 
 astray ; 
 
 And I at times have foiuid the strug- 
 gle hard. 
 
 And thought of shaking off my bonds 
 of clay : 
 
 But now I fain would for a time sur- 
 vive. 
 
 If but to see what next can well ar- 
 rive. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my litth^ 
 
 day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
 And when I look on this, the petty 
 
 spray 
 Of my own years of trouble, which 
 
 have rolled 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts 
 
 away ; 
 Something — I know not what — does 
 
 still uphold 
 A spirit of slight patience; — not in 
 
 vain. 
 Even for its own sake, do we pur- 
 chase pain. 
 
 Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
 
 Within me — or perhaps a cold de- 
 spair. 
 
 Brought on when ills habitually re- 
 cur, — 
 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air. 
 
 ( Fur even to this may change of soul 
 refer, 
 
 •Vnd with light armor we may learn 
 to bear,) 
 
 Have taught me a strange quiet; 
 which was not 
 
 The chief companion of a calmer lot. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flow- 
 ers, and brooks. 
 Which do remember me of where I 
 
 dwelt 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to 
 
 books. 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can 
 
 melt 
 My heart with recognition of their 
 
 looks ; 
 And even at moments I think I could 
 
 see 
 Some living thing to love — but none 
 
 like thee. 
 
96 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which 
 
 create 
 A fund for contemplation; — to ad- 
 mire 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date: 
 But something worthier do such 
 
 scenes inspire: 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
 For much I view ^^'hich I could most 
 
 desire, 
 And. above all, a lake I can behold 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own 
 of old. 
 
 that thou wert but with me! — but 
 
 I grow 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
 The solitude which I have vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one re- 
 gret ; 
 There may be others which I less 
 may show; — 
 
 1 am not of the plaintive mood, and 
 
 yet 
 I feel an ebb in my philosophy. 
 And the tide rising in my altered eye. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear 
 lake. 
 
 By the old Hall which may be mine 
 no more. 
 
 Leman's is fair; but think not I for- 
 sake 
 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer 
 shore: 
 
 Sad havoc Time must with my mem- 
 ory make 
 
 Ere that or tliou can fade these eyes 
 before ; 
 
 Though like all things which I have 
 loved, they are 
 
 Resigned for ever, or divided far. 
 
 The world is all before me ; but I ask 
 Of Nature that with which she will 
 
 comply — 
 It is but in her siunmer's sun to bask. 
 To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
 To see her gentle face without a 
 
 mask. 
 And never gaze on it with apathy. 
 She was niy early friend, and now 
 
 shall be 
 My sister — till I look again on thee. 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
 And that I would not; — for at length 
 
 I see 
 Such scenes as those wherein my life 
 
 begun 
 The earliest — even the only paths 
 
 for me. 
 Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to 
 
 shun, 
 I had been better than I now can be ; 
 The passions which have torn me 
 
 would have slept ; 
 I had not suffered, and thou hadst 
 
 not wept. 
 
 With false Ambition what had I to do? 
 Little with Love, and least of all 
 
 with Fame; 
 And yet they came unsought, and 
 
 with me grew, 
 And made me all which they can 
 
 make — a name. 
 Yet this was not the end I did pursue; 
 Surely I once beheld a noljler aim. 
 But all is over — I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone 
 
 before. 
 
 And for the future, this world's fu- 
 ture may 
 
 From me demand but little of my 
 care ; 
 
 I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
 
 Having survived so many things that 
 were ; 
 
 My years have been no slumber, but 
 the prey 
 
 Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share 
 
 Of life which might have tilled a cen- 
 tury, 
 
 Before its fourth in time had passed 
 me by. 
 
 And for the remnant which may be 
 to come 
 
 I am content; and for the past I feel 
 
 Not thankless. — for within the 
 crowded sum 
 
 Of struggles, happiness at times 
 would steal. 
 
 And for the present, I would not be- 
 numb 
 
 My feelings farther. Nor shall I 
 conceal 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 97 
 
 That with all this I still can look 
 
 around. 
 And worship Nature with a thought 
 
 profound. 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy 
 heart 
 
 1 know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
 
 We were and are — 1 am, even as 
 thou art — 
 
 Beings who ne'er each other can re- 
 sign; 
 
 It is the same, together or apart, 
 
 From life's conmiencement to its 
 slow decline 
 
 We are entwined — let death come 
 slow or fast. 
 
 The tie which bound the first endures 
 the last. 
 
 [From The Giaour.] 
 THE FIB ST DAY OF DEATH. 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the 
 
 dead 
 Ere the first day of death is fled. 
 The first dark day of nothingness. 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 (Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 Have swept the lines where beauty 
 
 lingers ) . 
 And marked the mild angelic air. 
 The rapture of repose that's there, 
 The fixed yet tender traits that 
 
 streak 
 The languor of the placid cheek. 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye. 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not 
 
 now. 
 And but for that chill changeless 
 
 brow. 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
 As if to him it could impart 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; 
 Yes, but for these and these alone. 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous 
 
 hour. 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's 
 
 power ; 
 So fair, so calm, so softly sealed. 
 The first last look by death revealed ! 
 
 [From The Giaour.'] 
 LOVE. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 Love indeed is light from 
 heaven ; 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Allah given, 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above. 
 But heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeling from the Godhead caught. 
 To wean from self each sordid 
 
 thought ; 
 A ray of Him who formed the whole; 
 A glory circling round the soul ! 
 
 [From The Dream.] 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Our life is twofold! Sleep hath its 
 own world, 
 
 A boundary between the things mis- 
 named 
 
 Death and existence: Sleep hath its 
 own world. 
 
 And a wide realm of wild reality. 
 
 And dreams in their development 
 have breath. 
 
 And tears, and tortures, and the 
 touch of joy; 
 
 They leave a weight upon our wak- 
 ing thoughts. 
 
 They take a weight from off our 
 waking toils. 
 
 They do divide our being; they be- 
 come 
 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
 
 And look like heralds of eternity; 
 
 They pass like spirits of the past — 
 they speak 
 
 Like sibyls of the future ; they have 
 power — 
 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 
 They make us what we were not — 
 what they will. 
 
 And shake us with the vision that's 
 gone by. 
 
 The dream of vanished shadows — 
 Are they so ? 
 
 Is not the past all shadow ? What 
 are they ? 
 
 98 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Creations of the mind ? — The mind 
 
 can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its 
 
 own 
 With beings brighter than have been, 
 
 and give 
 A breath to form Avhich can outlive 
 
 all flesh. 
 I would recall a vision which I 
 
 dreamed 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a 
 
 thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of 
 
 years. 
 And curdles a long life into one hour. 
 
 {From Don Juan.] 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of 
 Greece! [sung. 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and 
 Where grew the arts of Mar and 
 peace, — 
 Where Delos rose and Phoebus 
 sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute. 
 Have found the fame your shores 
 refuse : 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the 
 Blest." 
 
 The moimtains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 I dreamed that Greece might still 
 be free ; 
 
 For standing on the Persian's grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sat on the rocky lirow 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis: 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below. 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 
 And M'hen the sun set, where were 
 they ? 
 
 And where are they ? and where art 
 thou, 
 
 M^ country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 The heroic lay is timeless now — 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine. 
 Degenerate into hands like mine ? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Though linked among a fettered 
 race, 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a 
 tear. 
 
 ,Must loe but weep o'er days more 
 blest ? 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers 
 bled. 
 Earth! render back from out thy 
 breast 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three. 
 To make a new Thermopylaj ! 
 
 What, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 
 
 And answer, "Let one living head. 
 But one arise, — we come, we come! " 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain ; strike other 
 chords ; 
 Fill high the cup with Samian 
 wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet. 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx 
 gone? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave, — 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 We will not think of themes like 
 these ! 
 
THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 Page 
 
It made Anacreon's song divine: 
 He served — but served Poly- 
 crates — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 Was freedom's best and bravest 
 friend ; 
 That tyrant was Miltiades! 
 Oh! that the present hour would 
 lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian 
 wine ! 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perliaps, some seed is 
 
 sown. 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 They have a king who buys and 
 sells ; 
 In native swords, and native ranks, 
 The only hope of courage dwells : 
 But Turkisli force and Latin fraud 
 Would break your shield, however 
 broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian 
 wine ! 
 Our virgins dance beneath the 
 shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 To think such breasts must suckle 
 slaves. 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marble steep. 
 Where nothing save the waves 
 and 1 
 May hear our mutual murnun-s sweep : 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and 
 die; 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian 
 
 [ From the Prophecy of Dante.] 
 GENIUS. 
 
 Many are poets who have never 
 penned 
 Their inspiration, and perchance, 
 
 the best ; 
 They felt, and loved and died, but 
 would not lend 
 Their thoughts to meaner beings; 
 they compressed 
 The God within them, and rejoined 
 
 the stars 
 Unlaurelled upon earth, but far 
 more blessed 
 Than those who are degraded by the 
 jars 
 Of passion, and their frailties 
 
 linked to fame. 
 Conquerors of high renown, but 
 full of scars. 
 Many are poets, but without the 
 name ; 
 For Avhat is poesy but to create 
 From overf eeling good or ill ; and 
 aim 
 At an external life beyond our fate 
 And be the new Prometheus of 
 
 new men. 
 Bestowing fire from heaven, and 
 then, too late, 
 Finding the pleasure given repaid 
 with pain. 
 And vultures to the heart of the 
 
 bestower. 
 Who, having lavished his high 
 gift in vain 
 Lies chained to his lone rock by the 
 sea-shore ! 
 So be it; we can bear. — But thus 
 
 all they 
 "Wliose intellect is an o'ermastering 
 power, 
 Wliich still recoils from its encum- 
 bering clay. 
 Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
 The forms which their creation 
 may essay. 
 Are bards; the kindled marble's bust 
 may wear 
 More poesy upon its speaking 
 
 brow 
 Than aught less than the Homeric 
 
100 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 One noble stroke with a whole life 
 may glow, 
 
 Or deify the canvas till it shine 
 
 With beauty so surpassing all be- 
 low, 
 That they who kneel to idols so di- 
 vine 
 
 Break no commandment, for high 
 heaven is there 
 
 Transfused, transfigurated : and 
 the line 
 Of poesy which peoples but the air 
 
 With thought and beings of our 
 thought reflected. 
 
 Can do no more : then let the artist 
 share 
 The palm ; he shares the peril, and 
 dejected 
 
 Faints o'er the labor unapproved 
 —Alas! 
 
 Despair and genius are too oft con- 
 nected. 
 
 {From Childe Harold.} 
 
 THE MISERY OF EXCESS. 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, 
 Alas! I cannot smile again: 
 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 Shouldst weep, and haply weep in 
 vain. 
 
 And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 A pang, even thou must fail to 
 soothe ? 
 
 It is not love, it is not hate. 
 Nor low ambition's honors lost, 
 
 That bids me loathe my present state, 
 And fly from all I prize the most! 
 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see ; 
 
 To me no pleasure Beauty brings : 
 Thine eyes have scarce a charm foi' 
 me. 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 
 
 That will not look beyond the tomb. 
 And cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 What exile from himself can flee ? 
 To zones, though more and more 
 remote. 
 Still, still pursues, where'er I be. 
 The blight of life — the demon 
 Thought. 
 
 Yet, others rapt in pleasure seem. 
 And taste of all that I forsake; 
 
 Oh ! may they still of transport 
 dream. 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake! 
 
 Through many a clime 'tis mine to 
 
 go, 
 With many a retrospection curst; 
 And all my solace is to know. 
 What e'er betides, I've known the 
 
 worst. 
 
 What is that worst ? Nay, do not 
 ask — 
 In pity from the search forbear: 
 Smile on — nor venture to mimask 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell 
 that's there. 
 
 [From Childe Harold.] 
 APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAX. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless 
 
 woods. 
 There is a rapture on the lonely 
 
 shore. 
 There is society, where none intrudes. 
 By the deep sea, and music in its 
 
 roar: 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature 
 
 more. 
 From these our interviews, in which 
 
 I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been be- 
 fore. 
 To mingle Avith the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot 
 
 all conceal. 
 
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue 
 
 Ocean — roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee 
 
 In vain; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his 
 
 control 
 Stops with the shore; — upon the 
 
 watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 
 
 remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his 
 
 own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of 
 
 rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bub- 
 bling groan. 
 Without a grave, uuknelled, uncof- 
 
 tined, and unknown. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike 
 
 the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations 
 
 quake. 
 And monarclis tremble in their cap- 
 itals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs 
 
 make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 
 
 flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, 
 
 which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of 
 
 Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in 
 
 all save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Eome, Carthage, 
 
 what are they ? 
 Thy waters waslied tliem power while 
 
 they were free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores 
 
 obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage; their 
 
 decay 
 Has dried up reahiis to deserts: — 
 
 not so thou; — 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' 
 
 play — 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine 
 
 azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou 
 
 rollest now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- 
 mighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze or 
 
 gale, or storm. 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, 
 
 and sublime — 
 The image of eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy 
 
 slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made : 
 
 each zone 
 Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, 
 fathomless, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and 
 
 my joy [to be 
 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast 
 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: 
 
 from a boy 
 I wantoned with thy breakers — they 
 to me • (sea 
 
 Were a delight; and if the freshening 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleas- 
 ing fear. 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And, trusted to thy billows far and 
 
 near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — 
 as I do here. 
 
 [From Childe Harold.'] 
 
 CALM AND TEMPEST AT NIGHT 
 ON LAKE LEMAN {GENEVA). 
 
 Clear, placid Leman! thy con- 
 trasted lake. 
 With the wide world I dwelt in is a 
 
 thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness, 
 
 to forsake [spring. 
 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless Aving 
 To waft me from distraction ; once 
 
 I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft 
 
 murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice 
 
 reproved. 
 That I with stern delights should e'er 
 
 have been so moved. 
 
102 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all be- 
 tween 
 
 Thy margin and the mountains, 
 dusk, yet clear, 
 
 Mellowed and mingling, yet dis- 
 tinctly seen, 
 
 Save darkened Jura, whose capt 
 heights appear 
 
 Precipitously steep; and drawing 
 near 
 
 There breathes a living fragrance 
 from tlie shore. 
 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; 
 on the ear 
 
 Drops the light drip of the sus- 
 pended oar. 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good- 
 night carol more. 
 
 He is an evening reveller who 
 
 makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his 
 
 till; 
 At intervals, some bird from out 
 
 the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is 
 
 still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on 
 
 the hill, 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight 
 
 dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 Weeping themselves away, till they 
 
 infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit 
 
 of Iier hues. 
 
 Ye stars! which are the poetry of 
 
 heaven, 
 If in your bright leaves we would 
 
 read the fate 
 Of men and empires, — 'tis to be 
 
 forgiven, 
 That in" our aspirations to be great, 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal 
 
 state, 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for 
 
 ye are 
 A beauty, and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from 
 
 afar. 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have 
 
 named themselves a star. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still — 
 
 though not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when 
 
 feeling most; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts 
 
 too deep : — 
 All heaven and earth are still : — 
 
 From the high host 
 Of stars, to the lulled lake and 
 
 mountain-coast. 
 All is concentred in a life intense. 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf 
 
 is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a 
 
 sense 
 Of that which is of all Creator and 
 
 defence. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so 
 
 felt 
 In solitude, where we are least 
 
 alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being, 
 
 then doth melt. 
 And purifies from self : it is a tone. 
 The soul and source of music, which 
 
 makes known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a 
 
 charm. 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's stone. 
 Binding all things with beauty ; — 
 
 'twould disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial 
 
 power to harm. 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian 
 
 make 
 His altar the high places and the 
 
 peak 
 Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and 
 
 thus take 
 A fit and unwalled temple, there to 
 
 seek 
 The Spirit in whose honor shrines 
 
 are weak, 
 Upreared of human hands. Come, 
 
 and compare 
 Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth 
 
 or Greek, 
 With Nature's realms of worship, 
 
 earth and air. 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circum- 
 scribe thy prayer! 
 
BYRON. 
 
 103 
 
 The sky is changed '? — and such a 
 
 change! O night, 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are 
 
 wondrous strong, 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is 
 
 the light 
 Of a darkeye in woman ! Far along 
 From peak to peak, the rattling 
 
 crags among, 
 Leaps the live thunder! Not froin 
 
 one lone cloud. 
 But evei-y mountain now hath 
 
 found a tongue, 
 And Jura answers, through her 
 
 misty shroud. 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to 
 
 her aloud ! 
 
 And this is in the night : — Most 
 glorious night ! 
 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let 
 me be 
 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far de- 
 light. — 
 
 A portion of the tempest and of 
 thee! 
 
 How the lit lake shines, a phos- 
 phoric sea. 
 
 And the big rain comes dancing to 
 the earth! 
 
 And now again 'tis black, — and 
 now, the glee 
 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its 
 mountain-mirth, 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young 
 earthquake's birth. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, 
 lightnings! ye! 
 
 With night, and clouds, and thun- 
 der, and a soul 
 
 To make these felt, and feeling, 
 well may be 
 
 Things that have made me watch- 
 ful ; the far roll 
 
 Of your departing voices, is the 
 knoll 
 
 Of what in me is sleepless, — if I 
 rest. goal ? 
 
 But where of ye, O tempests, is the 
 
 Are ye like those within the human 
 breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, 
 some high nest! 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 
 That which is most within me, — 
 could I wreak 
 
 My thoughts upon expression, and 
 thus throw 
 
 Soul, heart, mind, passions, feel- 
 ings, strong or weak. 
 
 All that I would have sought, and 
 all I seek. 
 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — 
 into one word. 
 
 And that one word were light- 
 ning, I would speak; 
 
 But as it is I live and die imheard. 
 With a most voiceless thought 
 sheathing it as a sword. 
 
 iFrom Childe Harold.] 
 BYRON-S REMARKABLE PROPHECY. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not 
 
 that now 
 I shrink from what is suffered : let 
 
 him speak 
 "Wlio hath beheld decline upon my 
 
 brow, 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave 
 
 it weak ; 
 But in this page a record will I seek. 
 Not in the air shall these my words 
 
 disperse. 
 Though 1 be ashes ; a far hour shall 
 
 wreak [verse. 
 
 The deep prophetic fulness of this 
 And pile on human heads the momi- 
 
 tain of my curse ! 
 
 That curse shall be Forgiveness. — 
 
 Have I not — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth! behold 
 
 it. Heaven ! — 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my 
 
 lot? 
 Have I not suffered things to be for- 
 given ? 
 Have I not had my brain seared, my 
 
 heart riven, 
 Hopes sapped, name blighted, Life's 
 
 life lied away ? 
 And only not to desperation driven, 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots into the souls of those whom 
 
 I survey. 
 
104 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 
 Have I not seen what human things 
 could do ? 
 
 From the loud roar of foaming cal- 
 umny 
 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry 
 few, 
 
 And subtler venom of the reptile 
 crew, 
 
 The Janus glance of whose signifi- 
 cant eye, 
 
 Learning to lie with silence, would 
 seem true. 
 
 And without utterance, save the 
 shrug or sigh, 
 
 Deal round to happy fools its speech- 
 less obloquy. 
 
 But I have lived, and have not lived 
 in vain : 
 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood 
 its tire. 
 
 And my frame perish even in con- 
 quering pain; 
 
 But there is that within me that shall 
 tire 
 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when 
 I expire. 
 
 Something vmearthly, which they 
 deem not of 
 
 Like the remembered tone of a mute 
 lyre. 
 
 Shall on their softened spirits sink, 
 and move 
 
 In hearts all rocky now the late re- 
 morse of love. 
 
 [From Chihle Harold.-] 
 ONE PRESENCE WANTING. 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels 
 FroM'ns o'er the wide and winding 
 
 Rhine, 
 WTiose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the 
 
 vine, 
 And hills all rich with blossomed 
 
 trees. 
 And fields which promise corn and 
 
 wine. 
 
 And scattered cities crowning these. 
 Whose far white walls along them 
 
 shine, 
 Have strewed a scene, which I should 
 
 see 
 With double joy wert thou with me. 
 
 And peasant girls, with deep-blue 
 eyes. 
 
 And hands which offer early flowers, 
 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 
 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 
 Through green leaves lift their walls 
 of gray 
 
 And many a rock which steeply low- 
 ers, 
 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
 
 13ut one thing want these banks of 
 Ehine, — 
 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 
 
 I send the lilies given to me ; 
 Though long before thy hand they 
 
 touch, 
 I know that they must withered 
 
 be. 
 But yet reject them not as such : 
 For I have cherished them as dear 
 Because they yet may meet thine 
 
 eye. 
 And guide thy soul to mine even 
 
 here. 
 When thou behold'st them drooping 
 
 nigh. 
 And knowest them gathered by the 
 
 Rhine, 
 And offered from my heart to thine. 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows. 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 Some fresher beauty varying roimd : 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might 
 
 bound 
 Through life to dwell delighted 
 
 here ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 To nature and to me so dear. 
 Could thy dear eyes in following 
 
 mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of 
 
 Rhine! 
 
BYEON. 
 
 105 
 
 \_From Childe Harold.] 
 GREE CE, 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of 
 woe, 
 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men ! 
 art thou ! 
 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of 
 snow ; 
 
 Proclaim thee nature's varied fa- 
 vorite now ; 
 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy sur- 
 face bow, 
 
 Commingling slowly with heroic 
 earth, 
 
 Broke by the share of eveiy rustic 
 plough : 
 
 So perish monuments of mortal 
 birth. 
 So perish all in turn, save well-re- 
 corded worth; 
 
 Save where some solitary column 
 mourns 
 
 Above its i^rostrate brethren of the 
 cave; 
 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine 
 adorns 
 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams along 
 the wave ; 
 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-for- 
 gotten grave. 
 
 Where the gray stones and unmo- 
 lested grass 
 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave. 
 
 Where strangers only, not regard- 
 less pass. 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, 
 and sish " Alas! " 
 
 Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags 
 
 as wild : 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant 
 
 are thy fields. 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva 
 
 smiled, 
 And still his honeyed wealth Hy- 
 
 mettus yields ; 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant 
 
 fortress builds. 
 The freeborn wanderer of the 
 
 mountain air: 
 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer 
 
 gilds. 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles 
 glare 
 Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature 
 still is fair. 
 
 Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, 
 
 holy ground ; 
 Xo earth of thine is lost in vulgar 
 
 mould. 
 But one vast realm of wonder 
 
 spreads around, 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truly 
 
 told, [behold 
 
 Till the sense aches with gazing to 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have 
 
 dwelt upon: 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening 
 
 glen and wold 
 Defies the power which crushed thy 
 
 temples gone : 
 Age shakes Athena' s tower, but spares 
 
 gray Marathon. 
 
 [From Childe Harold.] 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO ADA, THE 
 POET'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 My daughter! with thy name this 
 
 song begun — 
 My daughter! with thy name thus 
 
 much shall end — 
 I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — 
 
 but none 
 Can be so wrapped in thee; thou 
 
 art the friend 
 To whom the shadows of far years 
 
 extend ; 
 Albeit my brow thou never shouldst 
 
 behold, 
 My voice shall with thy future vis- 
 ions blend. 
 And reach into thy heart, — when 
 
 mine is cold, 
 A token and a tone, even from thy 
 
 father's mould. 
 
 To aid thy mind's development, — 
 
 to watch 
 Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit 
 
 and see 
 
Almost thy very growth, — to view 
 thee catch 
 
 Knowledge of objects, — wonders 
 yet to thee ! 
 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle 
 knee. 
 
 And print on thy soft cheek a par- 
 ent's kiss, — 
 
 This, it should seem, was not re- 
 served for me; 
 
 Yet this was in my natm^e, — as it 
 is, 
 I know not what is there, yet some- 
 thing like to this. 
 
 Yet, though dull hate, as duty 
 
 should be taught, 
 I know that thou wilt love me; 
 
 though my name 
 Should be shut from thee, as a spell 
 
 still fraught 
 With desolation, — and a broken 
 
 claim: 
 Though the grave closed between 
 
 us, 'twere the same. 
 I know that thou wilt love me; 
 
 though to drain 
 My blood from out thy being were 
 
 an aim. 
 And an attainment, — all would be 
 
 in vain, — 
 Still thou wouldst love me, still that 
 
 more than life retain. 
 
 The child of love, — though born 
 
 in bitterness, 
 And nurtured in convulsion. Of 
 
 thy sire 
 These were the elements, — and 
 
 thine no less. 
 As yet such are around thee, — but 
 
 thy fire 
 Shall be more tempered, and thy 
 
 hope far higher. 
 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! 
 
 O'er the sea, 
 And from the mountains where I 
 
 now respire. 
 Fain would I waft such blessing 
 
 upon thee, 
 As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst 
 
 have been to me ! 
 
 {From Chitde Harold.] 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by 
 night, 
 
 And Belgium's capital had gath- 
 ered then 
 
 Her beauty and her chivalry, and 
 bright 
 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women 
 and brave men; 
 
 A thousand hearts beat happily; 
 and when 
 
 Music arose with its voluptuous 
 swell. 
 
 Soft eyes looked love, to eyes which 
 spake again, 
 
 And all went merry as a marriage- 
 bell; 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes 
 like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it? — No: 'twas 
 but the wind. 
 
 Or tlie car rattling o'er the stony 
 street ; 
 
 On with the dance ! let joy be un- 
 confined ; 
 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and 
 Pleasure meet 
 
 To chase the glowing hours with 
 flying feet — 
 
 But, hark ! — that heavy sound 
 breaks in once more. 
 
 As if the clouds its echo v/ould re- 
 peat; 
 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than 
 before ! 
 Arm! arm! it is — it is — the can- 
 non's opening roar! 
 
 And there was mounting in hot 
 haste : the steed. 
 
 The mustering stjuadron, and the 
 clattering car. 
 
 Went pouring forward with impet- 
 uous speed. 
 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks 
 of war; 
 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal 
 afar ; 
 
 And near, the beat of the alarming 
 drum 
 
BYRON. 
 
 107 
 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morn- 
 ing star; 
 
 While thronged the citizens with 
 terror dumb, 
 Or whispering with white lips "The 
 foe! They come! they come!" 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them 
 
 her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as 
 
 they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er 
 
 grieves. 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the 
 
 grass 
 Which now beneath them, but 
 
 above shall grow 
 In its next verdiu-e, when this fiery 
 
 mass 
 Of living valor, rolling on the foe. 
 And burning with high hope, shall 
 
 moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lustv 
 
 life. 
 Last eve in beauty's circle proudly 
 
 gay, 
 
 The midnight brought the signal 
 
 sound of strife, " 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, 
 
 — the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, 
 
 which when rent 
 The earth is covered thick with 
 
 other clay, 
 Wliich her own clay shall cover, 
 
 heaped and pent. 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in 
 
 one red burial blent! 
 
 ON COMPLETING MY THIRTY- 
 SIXTH YEAR. 
 
 [His last verses. ] 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be mi- 
 moved. 
 Since others it has ceased to move: 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved. 
 Still let me love: 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 The flowers and fruits of love are 
 gone ; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 A fimeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share. 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thus — and 'tis not /(ere — 
 Such thoughts should shake my 
 soul, nor now. 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier. 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner and the 
 field. 
 Glory and Greece, aroimd me see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake ! ) 
 Awake, my spirit! Think through 
 li'hom 
 Thy life-blood tracks Its parent lake, 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down. 
 Unworthy manhood ! — unto thee 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regrett'st thy youth, rclnj 
 live ? 
 The land of honorable death 
 Is here: — up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than 
 found — 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best; 
 Then look around, and choose thy 
 ground. 
 
 And take thy rest. 
 
Thomas Campbell. 
 
 HALLOWED GROUND. 
 
 What's hallowed ground '? Has 
 
 earth a clod 
 Its Maker meant not should be trod 
 By man, the image of his God, 
 
 Erect and free, 
 Unscourged by Superstition's rod, 
 
 To bow the knee ? 
 
 That's hallowed ground — where, 
 
 mourned, and missed. 
 The lips repose our love has kissed: — 
 But Where's their memory's mansion? 
 Is't 
 Yon churchyard's bowers! 
 No! in ourselves their souls exist, 
 A part of ours. 
 
 A kiss can consecrate the ground 
 Where mated hearts are mutual 
 bound : [wound, 
 
 The spot where love's first links were 
 
 That ne'er are riven. 
 Is hallowed down to earth's profound. 
 
 And up to Heaven ! 
 
 For time makes all but true love old ; 
 The burning thoughts that then were 
 
 told 
 Run molten still in memory's mould; 
 
 And will not cool, 
 Until the heart itself be cold 
 
 In Lethe's pool. 
 
 AVhat hallows ground where heroes 
 
 sleep ? 
 'Tis not the sculptured piles you 
 
 heap I 
 In dews that heavens far distant weep 
 
 Their turf may bloom ; 
 Or genii twine beneath the deep 
 Their coral tomb : 
 
 But strew his ashes to the wind 
 Whose sword or voice has served 
 
 mankind — 
 And is he dead, whose glorious mind 
 
 Lifts thine on high ? — 
 To live in hearts we leave behind, 
 
 Is not to die. 
 
 Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
 He's dead alone that lacks her light! 
 And murder sullies in Heaven's sight 
 
 The sword he draws : — 
 What can alone ennoble fight ? — 
 
 A noble cause ! 
 
 Give that ! and welcome War to brace 
 Her drums! and rend Heaven's reek- 
 ing space ! 
 The colors planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer, — 
 Though Death's pale horse lead on 
 the chase, — 
 Shall still be dear. 
 
 And place our trophies where men 
 
 kneel 
 To Heaven! — but Heaven rebukes 
 
 my zeal ! 
 The cause of Truth and human weal, 
 
 O God above ! 
 Transfer it from the s^\ord's appeal 
 To Peace and Love. 
 
 Peace ! Love ! the cherubim that join 
 Their spread wings o'er Devotion's 
 
 shrine, 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temjiles 
 shine, 
 AVhere they are not; 
 The heart alone can make divine 
 Religion's spot. 
 
 To incantations dost thou trust. 
 And pompous rights in domes au- 
 gust ? 
 See mouldering stones and metal's 
 rust 
 Belie the vamit. 
 That men can bless one pile of dust 
 With chime or chant. 
 
 The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, 
 
 man ! 
 The temples — creeds themselves, 
 
 grow wan! 
 But there's a dome of nobler span, 
 
 A temple given 
 Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban — 
 Its space is Heaven ! 
 
CAMPBELL. 
 
 109 
 
 Jts roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
 Where trancing the rapt spirit's 
 
 feeling, 
 And God himself to man revealing, 
 
 The harmonious spheres 
 Make music, though imheard their 
 pealing 
 By mortal ears. 
 
 Fair stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
 Can sin, can death your worlds ob- 
 scure ? 
 Else why so swell the thouglitsat your 
 
 Aspect above '? 
 Ye must be Heavens that make us 
 sure 
 Of heavenly love ! 
 
 And in your harmony sublime 
 I read the doom of distant time : 
 That man's regenerate soul from 
 crime 
 
 Shall yet be drawn, 
 And reason on his mortal clime 
 
 Immortal dawn. 
 
 What's hallowed ground ? 'Tis what 
 
 gives birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of 
 
 worth ! — 
 Peace! Independence! Trutli! go 
 forth 
 Earth's compass round; 
 And your high priesthood shall make 
 earth 
 All hallowed ground. 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in 
 gloom, 
 
 The "sun himself must die. 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its immortality ! 
 I saw a vision in my sleep, 
 That gave my spirit strength to 
 sweep 
 
 Adown the gulf of Time ! 
 I saw the last of human mould. 
 That shall Creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her prime! 
 
 The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
 
 The Earth with age was wan, 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man! 
 Some had expired in flight, — the 
 
 brands 
 Still rusted in their bony hands; 
 
 In plague and famine some! 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
 And ships were drifting witli the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 
 
 With dauntless words and high, 
 That shook the sere leaves from the 
 wood 
 
 As if a storm passed by. 
 Saying, " We are twins in death, 
 
 proud Sun, 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 
 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; 
 For thou ten thousand thousand years 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 
 "What though beneath thee man put 
 forth 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
 And arts that made tire, flood, and 
 earth, 
 The vassals of the will ? — 
 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway. 
 Thou dim discrowned king of day; 
 
 For all these trophied arts 
 And triumplis that beneath thee 
 
 sprang, 
 Healed not a passion or a pang 
 Entailed on human liearts. 
 
 " Go, let oblivion's curtain fall 
 
 Upon the stage of men. 
 Nor with thy rising beams recall 
 
 Life's tragedy again. 
 Its piteous pageants bring not back. 
 Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to. writhe; 
 Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred 
 Or mown in battle by the sword, 
 
 Like grass beneath the scythe. 
 
 " Even I am weary in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire; 
 Test of all sumless agonies, 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 
"My lips that speak thy dirge of 
 
 death — 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling 
 breath 
 To see thou shalt not boast. 
 The eclipse of Nature spreads my 
 
 pall, — 
 The majesty of darkness shall 
 Receive my parting ghost ! 
 
 " This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 Who gave its heavenly spark: 
 Yet think not, Sun, it shall l)e dim 
 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 No! it shall live again and shine 
 In bliss unknown "to beams of thine, 
 
 By Him recalled to breath, 
 Who captive led captivity. 
 Who robbed the grave of Victoiy, — 
 
 And took the siting from Death ! 
 
 " Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up 
 
 On Nature's awful waste 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief that man shall taste — 
 Go, tell the night that hides thy face. 
 Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 
 
 On Earth's sepulchral clod. 
 The darkening univei-se defy 
 To quench his Immortality, 
 
 Or shake his trust in God ! " 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 A NAVAL ODE. 
 
 Ye Mariners of England ! 
 
 That guard our native seas; 
 
 Whose flag has braved a thousand 
 
 years, 
 The battle and the breeze ! 
 Your glorious standard launch again 
 To match another foe ! 
 And sweep through the deep. 
 While the stormy winds do blow: 
 While the battle rages loud and long. 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave ! 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And ocean was their grave ; 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
 Your manly hearts shall glow. 
 As ye sweep through the deep. 
 While the stormy winds do blow; 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 No towers along the steep; 
 Her march is o'er the mountain- 
 waves, 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 With thunders from her native oak. 
 She quells the floods below — 
 As they roar on the shore. 
 When the stormy winds do blow; 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn ; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart, 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye ocean warriors! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name. 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
 
 W^hen the fiery fight is heard no more 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 HOW DELICIOUS IS THE WIN- 
 NING. 
 
 How delicious is the winning 
 Of a kiss at love's beginning. 
 When two mutual hearts are sighing 
 For the knot there's no untying! 
 
 Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing. 
 Love has bliss, but love has ruing; 
 Other smiles may make you fickle. 
 Tears for other charms may trickle. 
 
 Love he comes, and Love he tarries, 
 Just as fate or fancy carries ; 
 Longest stays, Avhen sorest chidden; 
 Laughs and flies, when pressed and 
 bidden. 
 
 Bind the sea to slumber stilly, 
 Bind its odor to the lily, 
 Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver, 
 Then bind Love to last for ever ! 
 
CAMPBELL. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Love's a fire that needs renewal 
 
 Of fresh beauty for its fuel ; 
 
 Love's wing moults when caged and 
 
 captured, 
 Only free, he soars enraptured. 
 
 Can you keep the bee from ranging, 
 Or tlie ring-dove's neck from chang- 
 ing? 
 No! nor fettered Love from dying 
 In the knot there's no untying. 
 
 LORD UL LIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands 
 bound. 
 
 Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry! 
 And I'll give thee a silver pound 
 
 To row us o'er the ferry." 
 
 " Now who be ye, would cross Loch- 
 gyle. 
 
 This dark and stormy water ? " 
 " O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter, 
 
 "And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we've fled together. 
 
 For should he find vis in the glen, 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 " His horsemen hard behind us ride; 
 
 Should they our steps discover. 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 
 When they have slain her lover ? " 
 
 Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready, — 
 
 It is not for your silver bright; 
 But for your winsome lady : 
 
 "And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry : 
 So though the waves are raging white, 
 
 I'll row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace. 
 The water-wraith was shrieking; 
 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind. 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 
 Adown the glenrode armed men, 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 " O haste thee, haste! " the lady cries, 
 ' ' Though tempests round us gather ; 
 
 I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father." — 
 
 The boat has left a stonny land, 
 
 A stormy sea befoi'e her, 
 When, oh! too strong for human 
 hand. 
 
 The tempest gathered o'er her. 
 
 And still they rowed amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing; 
 Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore; 
 
 His Avrath was changed to wailing. 
 
 For sore dismayed, through storm 
 and shade. 
 
 His child he did discover; 
 One lovely hand she stretched for aid. 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 "Comeback! comeback!" he cried 
 in grief, 
 
 " Across this stormy water: 
 And 1"11 forgive your Highland chief. 
 
 My daughter! — O my'daughter ! " 
 
 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed 
 the shore, 
 
 Return or aid preventing: — 
 The waters wild went o'er his child. 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 FIELD FLOWERS. 
 
 Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse 
 
 you, 'tis true. 
 Yet, wildings of Nature, I dote upon 
 
 you, 
 For ye waft me to summers of old. 
 When the earth teemed around me 
 
 with fairy delight, 
 And when daisies and buttercups 
 
 gladdened my sight, 
 Like treasures of silver and gold. 
 
I love you for lulling me back into 
 
 dreams 
 Of the blue Highland mountains and 
 
 echoing streams, 
 And of birchen glades breathing 
 
 their balm, 
 While the deer was seen glancing in 
 
 sunshine remote, 
 And the deep mellow crush of the 
 
 wood-pigeon's note 
 Made music that sweetened the 
 
 calm. 
 
 Xot a pastoral song has a pleasanter 
 
 tune 
 Than ye speak to my heart, little 
 
 wildings of June: 
 Of old ruinous castles ye tell. 
 Where I thought it delightful your 
 
 beauties to find, 
 When the magic of Nature first 
 
 breathed on my mind, 
 And your blossoms were part of her 
 
 spell. 
 
 Even now what affections the violet 
 awakes ; 
 
 What loved little islands, twice seen 
 in their lakes. 
 Can the wild water-lily restore; 
 
 What landscapes I read in the prim- 
 rose's looks, 
 
 And what pictures of pebbled and 
 minnowy brooks. 
 In the vetches that tangled their 
 shore. 
 
 Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart 
 
 ye were dear. 
 Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear 
 Had scathed ray existence's bloom; 
 Once I welcome you more, in life's 
 
 passionless stage, 
 With the visions of youth to revisit 
 my age, [tomb. 
 
 And I wisli you to grow on my 
 
 HOHENLINDEHf. 
 
 Ox Linden, when the sun was low. 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser rolling rapidly. 
 
 But Linden saw another sight. 
 When the drum beat at dead of night, 
 Connnanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
 Each horseman drew his battle-blade. 
 And furious every charger neighed. 
 To join the dreadful reveliy. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder 
 
 riven, 
 Then rushed the steed to battle 
 
 driven. 
 And louder than the bolts of heaven 
 Far flashed the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow. 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun, 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 The combat deepens. On ! ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Mimich ! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
 The snow shall be their winding- 
 sheet ! 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 There came to the beach a poor 
 
 exile of Erin, 
 The dew on his thin robe was heavy 
 
 and chill ; 
 For his country he sighed, when at 
 
 twilight repairing 
 To wander alone by the wind-beaten 
 
 hill. 
 But the day-star attracted his eye's 
 
 sad devotion. 
 For it rose o'er his own native isle of 
 
 the ocean, 
 
CAMPBELL. 
 
 n\ 
 
 Where once in the fire of his youthful 
 emotion, 
 He sang the bold anthem of Erin 
 go bragh ! 
 
 "Sad is my fate!" said the heart- 
 brolien stranger; 
 
 " The wild deer and wolf to a covert 
 can flee, 
 
 But I have no refuge from famine 
 and danger, 
 A home and a country remain not 
 to me. 
 
 Never again, in the green sunny bow- 
 ers, 
 
 Where my forefathers lived, shall I 
 spend the sweet hours. 
 
 Or cover my harp with the wild- 
 woven flowers. 
 And strilve to the numbers of Erin 
 go bragh! 
 
 "Erin, my country! though sad and 
 
 forsalien, 
 In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten 
 
 shore ; 
 But, alas! in a far foreign land I 
 
 awaken. 
 And sigh for the friends who can 
 
 meet me no more! [me 
 
 O cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace 
 In a mansion of peace — where no 
 
 perils can chase me ? 
 Never again shall my brothers em- 
 brace me ? 
 They died to defend me, or lived to 
 
 deplore ! 
 
 "Where is ray cabin-door, fast by 
 
 the wild wood ? 
 Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its 
 
 fall? 
 Where is the mother that looked on 
 
 my childhood ? 
 And where is the bosom-friend, 
 
 dearer than all ? 
 Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned 
 
 by pleasure, 
 Why did it dote on a fast-fading 
 
 treasure ? 
 Tears, like the rain drop, may fall 
 
 witliout measure. 
 But rapture and beauty they can 
 
 not recall. 
 
 "Yet all its sad recollections sup- 
 pressing. 
 One dying wish my lone bosom can 
 
 draw : 
 Erin! an exile bequeathes thee this 
 
 blessing! 
 Land of my forefathers ! Erin go 
 
 bragh ! 
 Buried and cold when my heart stills 
 
 her motion, 
 Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of 
 
 the ocean ! 
 And thy harp-striking bards sing 
 
 aloud with devotion, — 
 Erin mavournin — Erin go bragh ! " * 
 
 TO THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Triumphal arch, that fiU'st the sky 
 When storms prepare to part ! 
 
 I ask not proud Philosophy 
 To teach me what thou art — 
 
 Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 
 
 A midway station given 
 For happy spirits to alight 
 
 Betwixt the earth and heaven. 
 
 Can all that Optics teach, unfold 
 Thy form to please me so. 
 
 As when 1 dreamed of gems and gold 
 Hid in thy radiant bow ? 
 
 When Science from Creation's face 
 Enchantment's veil withdraws. 
 
 What lovely visions yield their place 
 To cold material laws ! 
 
 And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 
 But words of the Most High, 
 
 Have told why first thy robe of 
 beams 
 Was woven in the sky. 
 
 When o'er the green, undeluged earth 
 Heaven's covenant thou didst 
 shine, 
 How came the world's gray fathers 
 forth 
 To watch thy sacred sign ! 
 
 ♦ Ireland my darling— Ireland forever. 
 
And when its yellow lustre smiled 
 O'er mountains yet untrod, 
 
 Each mother held aloft her child 
 To bless the bow of God. 
 
 Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
 The first-made anthem rang, 
 
 On earth delivered from the deep, 
 And the first poet sang. 
 
 Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
 Unraptured greet thy beam : 
 
 Theme of primeval prophecy, 
 Be still the prophet's theme! 
 
 The earth to thee her incense yields, 
 The lark thy welcome sings, 
 
 When glittering in the freshened 
 fields 
 The snowy mushroom springs. 
 
 How glorious is thy girdle cast 
 O'er mountain, tower and town, 
 
 Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
 A thousand fathoms down ! 
 
 As fresh in yon horizon dark. 
 As young thy beauties seem, 
 
 As when the eagle from the ark 
 First sported in thy beam. 
 
 For, faithful to its sacred page. 
 Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
 
 Nor lets the type grow pale with age 
 That first spoke peace to man. 
 
 THE RIVER OF LIFE. 
 
 The more we live, more brief appear 
 Our life's succeeding stages: 
 
 A day to childhood seems a year. 
 And years like passing ages. 
 
 The gladsome current of our youth. 
 
 Ere passion yet disorders, 
 Steals lingering like a river smooth 
 
 Along its grassy borders. 
 
 But as the careworn cheek grows wan, 
 And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
 
 Ye stars, that measure" life to man. 
 Why seem your courses quicker ? 
 
 When joys have lost their bloom and 
 breath, 
 
 And life itself is vapid, 
 Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 
 
 Feel we its tide more rapid ? 
 
 It may be strange — yet who would 
 
 change 
 Time's course to slower speeding, 
 When one by one our friends have 
 
 gone 
 And left our bosoms bleeding ? 
 
 Heaven gives our years of fading 
 strength 
 Indemnifying fleetness ; 
 And those of youth, a seeming 
 length, 
 Proportioned to their sweetness. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North, 
 Sing the glorious day's renown, 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 All the might of Denmark's crowTi, 
 And her arms along the deep proudly 
 
 shone ; 
 By each gun the lighted brand. 
 In a bold determined hand ; 
 And the prince of all the land 
 Led them on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat, 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 
 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line: 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime : 
 
 As they drifted on their path, 
 
 There was silence deep as death ; 
 
 And the boldest held his breath, 
 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flushed 
 To anticipate the scene ; 
 And her van the fleeter rushed 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 "Hearts of oak! " our captain cried, 
 
 ^\•hen each gun 
 From its adamantine lips 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 Of the sun. 
 
WA 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 115 
 
 Again! again! again! 
 
 Anil the havoc did not slack, 
 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back : 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly 
 
 boom; 
 Then ceased — and all is wail, 
 As they strike the shattered sail ; 
 Or, in conflagration pale, 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then, 
 
 As he hailed them o'er the wave; 
 
 " Ye are brothers! ye are men! 
 
 And we conquer but to save : — 
 
 So peace instead of death let us 
 
 bring; 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 
 With the crew, at England's feet, 
 And make submission meet 
 To our king." 
 
 Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
 That he gave her woimds repose ; 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 From her people wildly rose. 
 As Death withdrew his shades from 
 
 the day ; 
 While the sun looked smiling bright 
 O'er a wide and woful sight, 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, old England, raise 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 By the festal cities' blaze. 
 Whilst the wine-cup shines in light! 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar. 
 Let us think of them that sleep. 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinoi'e I 
 
 Brave hearts! to Britain's pride 
 Once so faithful and so true. 
 On the deck of fame that died 
 With the gallant, good Riou : 
 Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er 
 
 their grave ! 
 While the billow mournful rolls. 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 Of the'^l:)rave! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Eakl March looked on his dying 
 child. 
 And smit with grief to view her — 
 " The youth," he cried, " whom I ex- 
 iled. 
 Shall be restored to woo her." 
 
 She's at the window many an hour 
 
 His coming to discover: 
 And he looks up to Ellen's bower. 
 
 And she looks on her lover — 
 
 But ah ! so pale he knew her not. 
 Though her snlile on him was 
 dwelling, 
 
 " And am I then forgot — forgot ? " 
 It broke the heart of Ellen. 
 
 In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs. 
 Her cheek is cold as ashes; 
 
 Nor love's own kiss shall wake those 
 eyes 
 To lift their silken lashes. 
 
 TRIBUTE TO VICTORIA. 
 
 Victoria's sceptre o'er the deep 
 Has touched, and broken slavery's 
 chain; 
 
 Yet, strange magician ! she enslaves 
 Our hearts within her own domain. 
 
 Her spirit is devout, and burns 
 With thoughts averse to bigotiy; 
 
 Yet she, herself the idol, turns 
 Our thoughts into idolatiy, 
 
 [From the Pleasures of Hope.] 
 
 THE DISTANT IX NATURE AND 
 EXPERIENCE. 
 
 At summer eve, when Heaven's ethe- 
 real bow- 
 Spans with bright arch the glittering 
 
 hills below, 
 Why to yon mountain turns the mus- 
 ing eye, 
 Whose sunbright summit mingles 
 with the sky ? 
 
116 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint 
 appear 
 
 More sweet than all the landscape 
 smiling near ? — 
 
 'Tis distance lends enchantment to 
 the view, 
 
 And rohes the mountain in its azure 
 hue. 
 
 Thus, with delight, we linger to sur- 
 vey 
 
 The promised joys of life's unmeas- 
 ured way ; 
 
 Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered 
 scene 
 
 More pleasing seems than all the past 
 hath been, 
 
 And every form, that Fancy can re- 
 pair 
 
 From dark oblivion, grows divinely 
 there 
 
 Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet gar- 
 den grow 
 
 Wreaths for each toil, a charm for 
 every woe; 
 
 Won by their sweets, in Nature's 
 languid hour, 
 
 The wayworn pilgrim seeks thy sum- 
 mer bower ; 
 
 There, as the wild bee murmurs on 
 the wing, 
 
 What peaceful dreams thy handmaid 
 spirits bring! 
 
 What viewless forms th' ^olian 
 organ play. 
 
 And sweep the furrowed lines of 
 anxious thought away. 
 
 [From The Pleasures of Hope.] 
 HOPE nV ADVEPSITY. 
 
 Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's 
 command. 
 
 When Israel marched along the des- 
 ert land, 
 
 Blazed through the night on lonely 
 wilds afar. 
 
 And told the path, — a never-setting 
 star: 
 
 So, heavenly Genius, in thy course 
 divine, 
 
 Hope is thy star, her light is ever 
 thine. 
 
 [From The Pleasures of Hope.] 
 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 Let winter come! let polar spirits 
 sweep 
 
 The darkening world, and tempest- 
 troubled deep ! 
 
 Though boundless snows the with- 
 ered heath deform. 
 
 And the dim sun scarce wanders 
 through the storm, 
 
 Yet shall the smile of social love re- 
 pay, 
 
 With mental light, the melancholy 
 day ! 
 
 And, when its short and sullen noon 
 is o'er. 
 
 The ice-chained waters slumbering 
 on the shore. 
 
 How bright the fagots in his little hall 
 
 Blaze on the hearth, and warm his 
 pictured wall ! 
 
 How blest he names, in Love's famil- 
 iar tone. 
 
 The kind, fair friend, by nature 
 marked his own ; 
 
 And, in the waveless mirror of his 
 mind. 
 
 Views the fleet years of pleasure left 
 behind. 
 
 Since when her empire o'er his heart 
 began ! 
 
 Since first he called her his before the 
 holy man ! 
 
 Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome. 
 And light the wintry paradise of 
 
 home ; 
 And let the half-micurtained window 
 
 hail 
 Some way-worn man benighted in the 
 
 vale! 
 Now, while the moaning night-wind 
 
 rages high, 
 As sweep the shot-stars down the 
 
 troubled sky. 
 While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide 
 
 circle play. 
 And bathe in lurid light the milky- 
 way, 
 Safe from the storm, the meteor, and 
 
 the shower. 
 Some pleasing page shall charm the 
 
 solemn hour — 
 
With pathos shall command, with wit 
 
 beguile, 
 A generous tear of anguish, or a 
 
 smile. 
 
 [From The Pleasures of Hope.] 
 APOSTROPHE TO HOPE. 
 
 Unfading Hope ! when life's last 
 embers burn, 
 
 When soul to soul, and dust to dust 
 return ! 
 
 Heaven to thy charge resigns the 
 awful hour ! 
 
 Oh! then, thy kingdom comes, im- 
 mortal Power! 
 
 What though each spark of earth- 
 born rapture fly 
 
 The quivering lip, pale cheek, and 
 closing eye ! 
 
 Bright to the soul thy seraph hands 
 convey 
 
 The morning dream of life's eternal 
 day — 
 
 Then, then the triumph and the 
 trance begin. 
 
 And all the phoenix spirit burns 
 within ! 
 
 [From The Pleasures of Hope.] 
 
 AGAINST SKEPTICAL PHILOSO- 
 PHY. 
 
 Ake these the pompous tidings ye 
 
 proclaim, 
 Lights of the world, and demigods of 
 
 Fame '? 
 Is this your triu)nj)h — this your 
 
 proud applause. 
 Children of Truth, and champion of 
 
 her cause ? 
 For this hath Science searched on 
 
 weaiy wing, 
 By shore and sea — each mute and 
 
 living thing! 
 Launched with Iberia's pilot from 
 
 the steep. 
 To worlds unknown and isles beyond 
 
 the deep ? 
 
 Or round the cope her living chariot 
 
 driven, 
 And wheeled in triumph through the 
 
 signs of Heaven. 
 Oh ! star-eyed Science, hast thou wan- 
 dered there, 
 To waft us home the message of des- 
 pair '? 
 Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow 
 
 to suit. 
 Of blasted leaf, and death-distilling 
 
 fruit ! 
 Ah me ! the laurelled wreath that 
 
 Murder rears. 
 Blood-nursed, and watered by the 
 
 widow's tears. 
 Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so 
 
 dread. 
 As waves the night-shade round the 
 
 skeptic head. 
 What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's 
 
 chain ? 
 I smile on death, if Heavenward 
 
 Hope remain: 
 But, if the warring winds of Nature's 
 
 strife 
 Be all the faithless charter of my life, 
 If Chance awakened, inexorable power 
 This fi'ail and feverish being of an 
 
 hour ; 
 Doomed o'er the world's precarious 
 
 scene to sweep. 
 Swift as the tempest travels on the 
 
 deep. 
 To know Delight but by her parting 
 
 smile, 
 And toil, and wish, and weep a little 
 
 while; 
 Then melt, ye elements, that formed 
 
 in vain 
 This troubled pulse and visionaiy 
 
 brain ! 
 Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of 
 
 my doom, 
 And sink, ye stars, that light me to 
 
 the tomb! 
 Truth, ever lovely, — since the world 
 
 began. 
 The foe of tyrants, and the friend of 
 
 man. — 
 How can thy words from balmy slum- 
 ber start 
 Reposing Virtue pillowed on the 
 
 heart ! 
 
118 
 
 CABEW— CARLYLE. 
 
 Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder 
 
 Oh! let her read, nor loudly, nor 
 
 rolled, 
 
 elate, 
 
 And that were true whicla Nature 
 
 The doom that bars us from a better 
 
 never told. 
 
 fate; 
 
 Let Wisdom smile not on her con- 
 
 But, sad as angels for the good man's 
 
 quered field 
 
 sin, 
 
 No rapture dawns, no treasure is re- 
 
 Weep to record, and blush to give 
 
 vealed ! 
 
 it in! 
 
 Thomas Carew. 
 
 DISDAIN RETURNED. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek 
 Or a coral lip admires. 
 
 Or from starlike eyes doth seek 
 Fuel to maintain his fires; 
 
 As old Time makes these decay. 
 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
 Gentle thoughts and calm desires, 
 
 Hearts with equal love combined, 
 Kindle never-dying fires : — 
 
 W^here these are not, I despise 
 
 Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 
 
 No tears, Celia, now shall win. 
 My resolved heart to return ; 
 
 I have searched the soul within 
 And find nouglit but pride and 
 scorn ; 
 
 I have learned thy arts, and now 
 
 Can disdain as much as thou ! 
 
 ASK ME NO MORE. 
 
 Ask me no more where Jove bestows. 
 When June is past, the fading rose. 
 For in your beauty's orient deep 
 These flowers, as in their causes, sleep, 
 
 Ask me no more whither do stray 
 The golden atoms of the day. 
 For, in pure love, heaven did prepare 
 Those powders to enrich your hair. 
 
 Ask me no more whither doth haste 
 The nightingale when May is past. 
 For in your sweet dividing throat 
 She winters and keeps M'arm her note. 
 
 Ask me no more where those stars light 
 That downwards fall in dead of night, 
 For in your eyes they sit, and there 
 Fixed become as in their sphere. 
 
 Ask me no more if east or west 
 The pha?nix builds her spicy nest. 
 For unto you at last she flies, 
 And in your fragrant bosom dies. 
 
 Thomas Carlyle. 
 
 TO-DA Y. 
 
 So here hath been dawning another 
 
 blue day ! 
 Think, wilt thou let it slip useless 
 
 away '? 
 
 Out of eternity this new day was born ; 
 Into eternity at night will return. 
 
 Behold it aforetime, no eye ever did ; 
 So soon it forever from all eyes is 
 hid. 
 
 Here hath been dawning another 
 
 blue day ; 
 Think, wilt thou let it slip useless 
 
 away. 
 
CABY. 
 
 119 
 
 CUI BONO? 
 
 What is hope ? A smiling rainbow 
 Children follow through the net : 
 
 'Tis not here — still yonder, yonder; 
 Never urchin found it yet. 
 
 What is life ? A thawing iceboard 
 On a sea with sunny shore : 
 
 Gay we sail ; it melts beneath us ; 
 We are sunk, and seen no more. 
 
 What is man ? A foolish baby ; 
 
 Vainly strives, and fights, and 
 frets : 
 Demanding all, deserving nothing. 
 
 One small grave is all "he gets. 
 
 Alice Gary. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Solitude ! Life is inviolate soli- 
 tude ; 
 Never was truth so apart from the 
 
 dreaming 
 As lietli the selfhood inside of the 
 seeming. 
 Guarded with triple shield out of all 
 quest, 
 So that the sisterhood nearest and 
 
 sweetest. 
 So that the brotherhood kindest, 
 completest, 
 Is but an exchanging of signals at 
 best. 
 
 Desolate ! Life is so dreary and 
 desolate. 
 Women and men in the crowd 
 
 meet and mingle. 
 Yet with itself every soul standeth 
 single. 
 Deep out of sympathy moaning its 
 moan ; 
 Holding and having its brief ex- 
 ultation ; 
 Making its lonesome and low la- 
 mentation ; 
 Fighting its terrible conflicts alone. 
 
 Separate ! Life is so sad and so sep- 
 arate. 
 Under love's ceiling with roses for 
 
 lining. 
 Heart mates with heart in a tender 
 entwining. 
 Yet never the sweet cup of love fill- 
 eth full. 
 
 Eye looks in eye with a question- 
 ing wonder. 
 
 Why are we thus in our meeting 
 asunder ? 
 Why are our pulses so slow and so 
 dull? 
 
 Fruitless, fruitionless ! Life is fru- 
 itionless; 
 Never the heaped-up and generous 
 
 measure ; 
 Never the substance of satisfied 
 pleasure ; 
 Never the moment with rapture 
 elate; 
 But draining the chalice, we long 
 
 for the chalice. 
 And live as an alien inside of our 
 palace, 
 Bereft of our title and deeds of estate. 
 
 Pitiful ! Life is so poor and so piti- 
 ful. 
 Cometh the cloud on the goldenest 
 
 weather ; 
 Briefly the man and his youth stay 
 together. 
 Falleth the frost ere the harvest is in, 
 And conscience descends from the 
 
 open aggression 
 To timid and troubled and tearful 
 concession, 
 And downward and down into parley 
 with sin. 
 
 Purposeless ! Life is so wayward and 
 purposeless. 
 Always before us the object is 
 shifting, 
 
120 
 
 CARY. 
 
 Always the means and the method 
 are drifting. 
 We rue what is done — what is un- 
 done deplore ; 
 
 More striving for high things than 
 things that are holy. 
 
 And so we go down to the valley 
 so lowly, 
 Wherein there is work, and device 
 never more. 
 
 Vanity, vanity ! All would be vanity. 
 Whether in seeking or getting our 
 
 pleasures, 
 Whether in spending or hoarding 
 our treasures. 
 Whether in indolence, whether in 
 strife — 
 Whether in feasting and whether 
 
 in fasting. 
 But for our faith in the Love ever- 
 lasting — 
 But for the Life that is better than 
 life. 
 
 THE FERR Y OF GALL A WA Y. 
 
 Ix the stormy waters of Gallaway 
 My boat had been idle the livelong 
 
 day, 
 Tossing and tumbling to and fro, 
 For the wind was high and the tide 
 
 was low. 
 
 The tide was low and the wind was 
 
 high, 
 And we were heavy, my heart and I, 
 For not a traveller all the day 
 Had crossed the ferry of Gallaway. 
 
 At set o' th' sun, the clouds out- 
 spread 
 
 Like wings of darkness overhead, 
 
 VMien, out o' th' west, my eyes took 
 heed 
 
 Of a lady, riding at full speed. 
 
 Tlie hoof-strokes struck on the flinty 
 
 hill 
 Like silver ringing on silver, till 
 I saw the veil in her fair hand float, 
 i\i\A flutter a signal for my boat. 
 
 The waves ran backward as if aware 
 Of a presence more than mortal fair, 
 And my little craft leaned down and 
 
 lay 
 With her side to th' sands o' th' Gal- 
 laway. 
 
 " Haste, good boatman! haste! " she 
 
 cried, 
 " And row me over the other side! " 
 And she stripped from her finger the 
 
 shining ring. 
 And gave it me for the ferrying. 
 
 " Woe 's me ! my Lady, I may not go, 
 For the wind is high and th' tide is 
 
 low, 
 And rocks, like dragons, lie in the 
 
 wave, — 
 Slip back on your finger the ring you 
 
 gave! " 
 
 " Nay, nay! for the rocks will be 
 
 melted down, 
 And the waters, they never will let 
 
 me drown, 
 And the wind a pilot will prove to 
 
 thee. 
 For my dying lover, he waits for 
 
 me!" 
 
 Then bridle-ribbon and silver spur 
 She put in my hand, but I answered 
 
 her: 
 " The wind is high and the tide is 
 
 low, — 
 I must not, dare not, and will not go ! " 
 
 Her face grew deadly white with pain, 
 
 And she took her champing steed by 
 th' mane. 
 
 And bent his neck to th' ribbon and 
 spur 
 
 That lay in my hand, — but I an- 
 swered her: 
 
 " Though you should proffer me 
 
 twice and thrice 
 Of ring and ribbon and steed the 
 
 price, — 
 The leave of kissing your lily-like 
 
 hand ! 
 I never could row you safe to th' 
 
 land." 
 
CAJRY. 
 
 121 
 
 '" Then God have mercy! " she faint- 
 ly cried, 
 
 '• For ray lover is dying the other 
 side! 
 
 O cruel, O cruellest Gallaway, 
 
 Be parted, and make me a path, I 
 pray ! ' ' 
 
 Of a sudden, the sun shone large and 
 
 bright 
 As if he were staying away the night; 
 And the rain on the river fell as 
 
 sweet 
 As the pitying tread of an angel's 
 
 feet. 
 
 And spanning the water from edge 
 
 to edge 
 A rainbow stretched like a golden 
 
 bridge. 
 And I put the rein in her hand so 
 
 fair. 
 And she sat in her saddle th' queen 
 
 o' th' air. 
 
 And over the river, from edge to 
 edge. 
 
 She rode on the shifting and shim- 
 mering bridge. 
 
 And landing safe on the farther 
 side, — 
 
 "Love is thy conqueror, Death!" 
 she cried. 
 
 COUNSEL. 
 
 Seek not to walk by borrowed light. 
 But keep unto thine own : 
 
 Do what thou doest with thy might. 
 And trust thyself alone ! 
 
 Work for some good, nor idly lie 
 
 Within the human hive ; 
 And though the outward man should 
 die, 
 
 Keep thou the heart alive ! 
 
 Strive not to banish pain and doubt. 
 
 In pleasure's noisy din; 
 The peace thou seekest for without 
 
 Is only found within. 
 
 If fortune disregard thy claim. 
 By worth, her slight attest; 
 
 Nor blush and hang the head for 
 shame 
 When thou hast done thy best. 
 
 Disdain neglect, ignore despair. 
 On loves and friendships gone 
 
 Plant thou thy feet, as on a stair, 
 And mount right up and on ! 
 
 A DUE AM. 
 
 I DREAMED I had a plot of ground. 
 Once when I chanced asleep to 
 drop, 
 And that a green hedge fenced it 
 round. 
 Cloudy with roses at the top. 
 
 I saw a hundred mornings rise, — 
 So far a little dream may reach, — 
 
 And Spring with Summer in her eyes 
 Making the chief est charm of each. 
 
 A thousand vines were climbing o'er 
 The hedge, I thought, but as I tried 
 
 To pull them down, for evermore 
 The flowers dropt off the other side ! 
 
 Waking, I said, "These things are 
 signs 
 
 Sent to instruct us that 'tis ours 
 Duly to keep and dress our vines, — 
 
 Waiting in patience for the flowers. 
 
 " And when the angel feared of all 
 Across my hearth its shadow 
 spread. 
 
 The rose that climbed my garden wall 
 Has bloomed the other side," I said. 
 
 SPEXT AND MISSPEXT. 
 
 Stay yet a little longer in the sky, 
 
 O golden color of the evening sun! 
 Let not the sweet day in its sweet- 
 ness die. 
 While my day's work is only just 
 begun. 
 
122 
 
 CAR v. 
 
 Counting the happy chances strewn 
 about 
 Thick as the leaves, and saying 
 wliich was best, 
 Tlie rosy Hghts of morning all went 
 out. 
 And it was burning noon, and 
 time to rest. 
 
 Then leaning low upon a piece of 
 shade, 
 Fringed round with violets and 
 pansies sweet, 
 "My heart and I," I said, "will be 
 delayed. 
 And plan our work while cools the 
 sultry heat." 
 
 Deep in the hills, and out of silence 
 vast, 
 A waterfall played up his silver 
 tune ; 
 My plans lost purpose, fell to dreams 
 at last. 
 And held me late into the after- 
 noon. 
 
 But when the idle pleasures ceased 
 to please. 
 And I awoke, and not a plan was 
 planned. 
 Just as a drowning man at what he 
 sees 
 Catches for life, I caught the thing 
 at hand. 
 
 And so life's little work-day hour has 
 all 
 Been spent and misspent doing 
 what I could, 
 And in regrets and efforts to recall 
 The chance of having, being, what 
 I would. 
 
 And so sometimes I cannot choose 
 but cry. 
 Seeing my late-sown flowers are 
 hardly set ; 
 O darkening color of the evening sky, 
 Spare me the day a little longer 
 yet. 
 
 LIFE'S MYSTERY. 
 
 Life's sadly solemn mystery. 
 Hangs o'er me like a weight; 
 
 The glorious longing to be free, 
 The gloomy bars of fate. 
 
 Alternately the good and ill. 
 The light and dark, are strung; 
 
 Fountains of love within my heart. 
 And hate upon my tongue. 
 
 Beneath my feet the unstable ground. 
 Above my head the skies ; 
 
 Immortal longings in my soul. 
 And death before my eyes. 
 
 No purely pure, and perfect good, 
 No high, unhindered power; 
 
 A beauteous promise in the bud, 
 And mildew on the flower. 
 
 The glad, green brightness of the 
 spring; 
 
 The summer, soft and warm ; 
 The faded autumn's fluttering gold, 
 
 The whirlwind and the storm. 
 
 To find some sure interpreter 
 
 My spirit vainly tries ; 
 I only know that God is love, 
 
 And know that love is wise. 
 
 NO RING. 
 
 What is it that doth spoil the fair 
 adorning 
 "With which her body she would 
 dignify, 
 When from her bed she rises in the 
 morning 
 To comb, and plait, and tie 
 Her hair with ribbons, colored like 
 the sky ? 
 
 What is it that her pleasure discom- 
 poses 
 When she would sit and sing the 
 sun away — [roses. 
 
 Making her see dead roses in red 
 
 And in the downfall gray 
 A blight that seems the world to 
 overlay ? 
 
What is it makes the trembling look 
 of trouble 
 About her tender mouth and eye- 
 lids fair '? 
 Ah me, ah me ! she feels her heart 
 beat double, 
 Without the mother's prayer, 
 And her wild fears are more than 
 she can bear. 
 
 To the poor sightless lark new pow- 
 ers are given, 
 Xot only with a golden tongue to 
 sing. 
 But still to make her wavering way 
 toward heaven 
 With imdiscerning wing; 
 But what to her doth her sick sorrow 
 bring ? 
 
 Her days she turns, and yet keeps 
 overturning. 
 And her flesh shrinks as if she felt 
 the rod ; 
 
 For 'gainst her will she thinks hard 
 
 things concerning 
 The everlasting God, 
 And longs to be insensate like the 
 
 clod. 
 
 Sweet Heaven, be pitiful I rain down 
 
 upon her [such : 
 
 The saintly charities ordained for 
 
 She was so poor in everything but 
 
 honor, ' [much! 
 
 And she loved much — loved 
 
 Would, Lord, she had thy garment's 
 
 hem to touch. 
 
 Haply, it was the hungry heart with- 
 in her. 
 The woman's heart, denied its nat- 
 lu-al right. 
 That made of her the thing which 
 men call sinner. 
 Even in her own despite ; 
 Lord, that her judges might receive 
 their sight! 
 
 Phoebe Gary. 
 
 XEARER HOME. 
 
 OXE sweetly solemn thought 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er; 
 
 I am nearer home to-day 
 Than I ever have been before ; 
 
 Xearer my father's house. 
 Where the many mansions be ; 
 
 Xearer the great white throne, 
 Nearer the ciystal sea ; 
 
 Xearer the boimd of life. 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down ; 
 Xearer leaving the cross, 
 
 Xearer gaining the crown I 
 
 But lying darkly between. 
 
 Winding down through the night, 
 Is the silent unknown stream. 
 
 That leads at last to the light. 
 
 Closer and closer my steps 
 Come to the dread abysm : 
 
 Closer Death to my lips 
 Presses the awful chrism. 
 
 Oh. if my mortal feet 
 
 Have almost gained the brink ; 
 If it be I am nearer home 
 
 Even to-day than I think ; 
 
 Father, perfect my trust ; 
 
 Let my spirit feel in death. 
 That her feet are firmly set 
 
 On the rock of a living faith I 
 
 DEAD LOVE. 
 
 We are face to face, and between us 
 here 
 Is the love we thought could never 
 die; 
 Why has it only lived a year ? 
 Who has murdered it — vou or I ? 
 
124 
 
 CARY. 
 
 No matter who — the deed was done 
 By one or both, and there it lies; 
 
 The smile from the lip forever gone, 
 And darkness over the beautiful 
 eyes. 
 
 Our love is dead, and our hope is 
 wrecked ; 
 So what does it profit to talk and 
 rave, 
 Whether it perished by my neglect, 
 Or whether your cruelty dug its 
 grave ! 
 
 Why should you say that I am to 
 blame. 
 Or why should I charge the sin on 
 you ? 
 Our work is before us all the same. 
 And the guilt of it lies between us 
 two. 
 
 W^e have praised our love for its 
 beauty and grace ; 
 Now we stand here, and hardly 
 dare 
 To turn the face-cloth back from the 
 face, 
 And see the thing that is hidden 
 there. 
 
 Yet look! ah, that heart has beat its 
 last. 
 And the beautiful life of our life is 
 o'er, 
 And when we have buried and left 
 the past, 
 We two, together, can walk no 
 more. 
 
 You might stretch yourself on the 
 dead, and weep. 
 And pray as the prophet prayed, 
 in pain; 
 But not like him could you break the 
 sleep, 
 And bring the soul to the clay again. 
 
 Its head in my bosom I can lay. 
 And shower my woe there, kiss on 
 kiss. 
 But there never was resurrection-day 
 In the world for a love so dead as 
 this. 
 
 And, since we cannot lessen the sin 
 
 By mourning over the deed we did. 
 Let us draw the winding-sheet up to 
 the chin. 
 Ay, up till the death-blind eyes 
 are hid ! 
 
 THE LADY JAQUELINE. 
 
 " False and fickle, or fair and sweet, 
 
 I care not for the rest, 
 The lover that knelt last night at my 
 feet 
 Was the bravest and the best. 
 Let them perish all, for their power 
 has waned. 
 And their glory waxed dim; 
 They were well enough while they 
 lived and reigned, 
 But never was one like him ! 
 And never one from the past would 
 I bring 
 Again, and call him mine; — 
 The King is dead, long live the 
 King!" 
 Said the Lady Jaqueline. 
 
 " In the old, old days, when life was 
 new, 
 
 And the world upon me smiled, 
 A pretty, dainty lover 1 had. 
 
 Whom I loved with the heart of a 
 child. 
 When the buried sun of yesterday 
 
 Comes back from the shadows dim, 
 Then may his love return to me. 
 
 And the love I had for him ! 
 But since to-day hath a better thing 
 
 To give, I'll ne'er repine; — 
 The King is dead, long live the 
 King! " 
 
 Said the Lady Jaqueline. 
 
 " And yet it almost makes me weep. 
 
 Aye ! weep, and cry, alas ! 
 When I think of one who lies asleep 
 
 Down under the quiet grass. 
 For he loved me well, and I loved 
 again. 
 
 And low in homag3 bent, 
 And prayed for his long and prosper- 
 ous reign. 
 
 In our realm of sweet content. 
 
But not to the dead may the living 
 cling, 
 
 Nor kneel at an empty shrine ; — 
 The King is dead, long live the King! " 
 
 Said the Lady Jaqueline. 
 
 "Once, caught by the sheen of stars 
 and lace, 
 I bowed for a single day, 
 To a poor pretender, mean and base. 
 
 Unfit for place or SMay. 
 That must have been the work of a 
 spell. 
 For the foolish glamour fled. 
 As the sceptre from his weak hand 
 fell, [head; 
 
 And the crown from his feeble 
 But homage true at last I bring 
 
 To this rightful lord of mine, — 
 The King is dead, long live the 
 King! " 
 Said the Lady Jaqueline. 
 
 "By the hand of one I held most 
 dear. 
 
 And called my liege, my own! 
 I was set aside in a single year. 
 
 And a new queen shares his throne. 
 To him who is false, and him who is 
 wed, 
 
 Shall I give my fealty ? 
 Nay, the dead one is not half so dead 
 
 As the false one is to me! 
 My faith to the faithful now I bring, 
 
 The faithless I resign; — 
 The King is dead, long live the 
 King! " 
 
 Said the Lady Jaqueline. 
 
 "Yea, all my lovers and kings that 
 were 
 
 Are dead, and hid away. 
 In the past, as in a sepulchre. 
 
 Shut up till the judgment-day. 
 False or fickle, or weak or wed, 
 
 They are all alike to me; 
 And mine eyes no more can be mis- 
 led,— 
 
 They have looked on loyalty ! 
 Then bring me wine, and garlands 
 bring 
 
 For my king of the right divine; — 
 The King is dead, long live the King 1^'' 
 
 Said the Lady Jaqueline. 
 
 ARCHIE. 
 
 Oil, to be back in the cool summer 
 
 shadow 
 Of that old maple-tree down in the 
 
 meadow ; 
 Watching the smiles that grew dearer 
 
 and dearer, 
 Listening to lips that grew nearer 
 
 and nearer; 
 Oh, to be back in the crimson-topped 
 
 clover. 
 Sitting again with my Archie, my 
 
 lover ! 
 
 Oh, for the time when I felt his ca- 
 resses 
 
 Smoothing away from my forehead 
 the tresses; 
 
 When up from my heart to my cheek 
 went the blushes. 
 
 As he said that my voice was as sweet 
 as the thrush's; 
 
 As he told me, my eyes were be- 
 witchingly jetty. 
 
 And I answered 't was only my love 
 made them pretty ! 
 
 Talk not of maiden reserve or of 
 
 duty, 
 Or hide from my vision such visions 
 
 of beauty; 
 Pulses above may beat calmly and 
 
 even, — 
 We have been fashioned for earth, 
 
 and not heaven; 
 Angels are perfect, I am but a 
 
 woman ; 
 Saints may be passionless, Archie is 
 
 human. 
 
 Say not that heaven hath tenderer 
 
 blisses 
 To her on whose brow drops the soft 
 
 rain of kisses; 
 Preach not the promise of priests or 
 
 evangels. 
 Love-crowned, who asks for the 
 
 crown of the angels ? 
 Yea, all that the wall of pure jasper 
 
 encloses. 
 Takes not the sweetness from sweet 
 
 bridal roses! 
 
126 
 
 CARY. 
 
 Tell me, that when all this life shall 
 be over, 
 
 I shall still love him, and he be my 
 lover; 
 
 That 'mid flowers more fragrant than 
 clover or heather 
 
 My Archie and I shall be always to- 
 gether. 
 
 Loving eternally, met ne'er to sever. 
 
 Then you may tell me of heaven for- 
 ever. 
 
 CONCL USIOJVS. 
 
 I SAID, if I might go back again 
 To the very hour and place of my 
 birth ; 
 Might have my life whatever I chose, 
 And live it in any part of the 
 earth ; 
 
 Put perfect simshine into my sky, 
 Banish the shadow of sorrow and 
 doubt ; 
 
 Have all my happiness multiplied, 
 And all my suffering stricken out ; 
 
 If I could have known in the years 
 now gone, 
 The best that a woman comes to 
 know ; 
 Could have had whatever will make 
 her blest, 
 Or whatever she thinks will make 
 her so; 
 
 Have found the highest and purest 
 
 bliss 
 That the bridal-wreath and ring 
 
 enclose ; 
 And gained the one out of all the 
 
 world. 
 That my heart as well as my reason 
 
 chose; 
 
 And if this had been, and I stood to- 
 night 
 By my children, lying asleep in 
 their beds 
 And could count in my prayers, for a 
 rosary. 
 The shining row of their golden 
 heads; 
 
 Yea ! I said, if a miracle such as this 
 
 Could be wrought for me, at my 
 
 bidding, still [is, 
 
 I would choose to have my past as it 
 
 And to let my future come as it 
 
 will! 
 
 I would not make the path I have 
 trod 
 More pleasant or even, more 
 straight or wide; 
 Nor change my course the breadth of 
 a hair. 
 This way or that way, to either 
 side. 
 
 My past is mine, and I take it all ; 
 Its weakness, — its folly, if you 
 please ; 
 Nay, even my sins, if you come to 
 that, 
 May have been my helps, not hin- 
 drances ! 
 
 If I saved my body from the flames 
 Because that once I had burned 
 my hand ; 
 Or kept myself from a greater sin 
 By doing a less, — you will mider- 
 stand ; 
 
 It was better I suffered a little pain, 
 
 Better I sinned for a little time. 
 If the smarting warned me back from 
 death. 
 And the sting of sin withheld from 
 crime. 
 
 Who knows his strength, by trial, 
 will know 
 What strength must be set against 
 a sin ; 
 And how temptation is overcome 
 He has learned, who has felt its 
 power within ! 
 
 And who knows how a life at the 
 last may show ? 
 Why, look at the moon from 
 where we stand ! 
 Opaque, uneven, you say; yet it 
 shines, 
 A luminous sphere, complete and 
 crand ! 
 
OUR HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Page 127. 
 
So let my past stand, just as it 
 stands. 
 And let me now, as I may, grow 
 old; 
 I am what I am, and my life for me 
 Is the best. — or it had not been, I 
 hold. 
 
 ANSWERED. 
 
 I THOUGHT to find some healing 
 clime [shore. 
 
 For her I loved; she found that 
 That city, whose inhabitants 
 
 Are sick and sorrowful no more. 
 
 I asked for human love for her ; 
 
 The Loving knew how best to still 
 The infinite yearning of a heart, 
 
 Which but infinity could fill. 
 
 Such sweet communion had been 
 ours 
 I prayed that it might never end ; 
 My prayer is more than answered; 
 now 
 I liave an angel for my friend. 
 
 I wished for perfect peace, to soothe 
 
 The troubled anguish of lier 
 
 breast; [called. 
 
 And, numbered with the loved and 
 She entered on untroubled rest. 
 
 Life was so fair a thing to her, 
 I wept and pleaded for its stay ; 
 
 My wisli was granted me, for lo ! 
 She hath eternal life to-day. 
 
 OUR HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Our old brown homestead reared its 
 walls 
 From the way-side dust aloof, 
 Where the apple-boughs could almost 
 cast 
 Their fruit upon its roof; 
 And tlie cherry-tree so near it grew 
 
 That when awake I've lain 
 In tlie lonesome nights, I've heard 
 the limbs 
 
 As they creaked against the pane : 
 And those orchard trees, oh those 
 orchard trees! 
 
 I've seen my little brothers rocked 
 In their tops by the summer breeze. 
 
 The sweet-briar, under the window- 
 sill, 
 Which the early birds made glad. 
 And the damask rose, by the garden- 
 fence. 
 Were all the flowers we had. 
 I've looked at many a flower since 
 then. 
 Exotics rich and rare, 
 That to other eyes were lovelier 
 
 But not to me so fair ; 
 For those roses bright, oh, those 
 roses bright! [locks, 
 
 I have twined them in my sister's 
 That are hid in the dust from sight. 
 
 We had a well, a deep old well. 
 
 Where the spring Avas never dry. 
 And the cool drops down from the 
 mossy stones 
 Were falling constantly; 
 And there never Avas water half so 
 sweet 
 As the draught which filled my cup. 
 Drawn up to the curb by the rude 
 old sweep 
 That my father's hand set up. 
 And that deep old well, oh that deep 
 old well! 
 I remember now the plashing sound 
 Of the bucket as it fell. 
 
 Our homestead had an ample hearth. 
 Where at night Ave loved to meet ; 
 There my mother's voice Avas alAA'ays 
 kind. 
 And her smile Avas alAA'ays sweet; 
 And there I've sat on my father's 
 knee. 
 And Avatched his thoughtful brow. 
 With my childish hand in his raven 
 hair, — 
 That liair is silver now! 
 But that broad heartli's light, oh, 
 
 that broad hearth's light! 
 And my father's look, and my moth- 
 er's smile. 
 They are in my heart to-night ! 
 
128 
 
 CLARK. 
 
 LuELLA Clark. 
 
 IF YOU LOVE ME. 
 
 If you love me, tell me not ; 
 Let me read it in yom- thought ; 
 Let me feel it in the way 
 That you say me yea and nay ; 
 
 Let me see it in your eye 
 When you greet or pass me by ; 
 Let me hear it in the tone 
 Meant for me and me alone. 
 
 If you love me, there will be 
 Something only I shall see ; 
 Meet or miss me, stay or go, 
 If you love me, I shall know. 
 
 Something in your tone will tell, 
 " Dear, I love you, love you well." 
 
 Something in your eyes will shine 
 Fairer that they look in mine. 
 
 In your mien some touch of grace. 
 Some swift smile upon your face 
 While you speak not, will betray 
 What your lips could scarcely say. 
 
 In your speech some silver word. 
 Tuning into sweet accord 
 All your bluntness will reveal. 
 Unaware, the love you feel. 
 
 If you love me, then, I pray, 
 Tell me not, but, day by day. 
 Let love silent on me rise, 
 Like the sun in sunnner skies. 
 
 Sarah D. Clark. 
 
 THE SOLDANELLA. 
 
 In the Avarm valley, i-ich in summer's 
 
 wealth, 
 Where tangled weed and shrub thin 
 
 leaves unclose. 
 Profuse and hardy in luxuriant 
 
 health, 
 The Soldanella grows. 
 
 Common — if aught be common in 
 
 God's care, — 
 Its buds no beauty show to charm 
 
 the eye. 
 Nor graceful pencillings in colors rare. 
 Enchant the passer-by. 
 
 Yet, on yon distant heights of ice- 
 pearled snow, 
 
 Where mortals barely can a pathway 
 trace. 
 
 The Alpine blossom of the vale be- 
 low 
 Blooms in ethereal grace. 
 
 Unlike, and yet the same, its petals 
 blow 
 
 Most like a crj'stal lily in the 
 air; 
 
 A dream of beauty 'mid the cheer- 
 less snow, — 
 A comfort in despair. 
 
 How came it trembling in the icy 
 
 gloom 
 Where awful steppes and frowning 
 
 glaciers rise 
 So marvellous in presence and in 
 
 bloom 
 Even to angelic eyes ? 
 
 While thus I mused, the fragile blos- 
 som seemed 
 
 Instinct with life, a spirit-form to 
 take; 
 
 Its fringed corolla with new radiance 
 beamed 
 A voice within it spake : — 
 
^p" 
 
 CLEMMER. 
 
 129 
 
 ■'Men man-el on these aiiy fields of 
 
 Take, with the fragrance of my lat- 
 
 space 
 
 est breath. 
 
 My tender form emergent to behold, 
 
 This lesson to thy heart : 
 
 A blossom of the skies — my name they 
 
 
 trace 
 
 " Go thou, to triumph in some glori- 
 
 With stars and suns enrolled. 
 
 ous strife. 
 
 
 Through daring paths some noble 
 
 " Though born and nurtiu-ed in the 
 
 cause retrieve ; 
 
 lowly vale, 
 
 Seek, to the highest measure of thy 
 
 Ignoble ease I was not doomed to 
 
 life. 
 
 bear; 
 
 Thy pm-pose to achieve. 
 
 I pined to scale the heights where 
 
 
 eagles sail. 
 
 '' Go tell the world, in Freedom's bat- 
 
 And paled for Freedom's air! 
 
 tle drawn, 
 
 
 For one brief hour, its horoscope I 
 
 "Not without toil my painful steps 
 
 see; 
 
 were bent 
 
 Tell one by one who fall, ' Swift 
 
 Through paths imperilled, and the 
 
 comes the dawn 
 
 icy sea, 
 
 To herald victory.' " 
 
 From Alp to Alp I gained my steep 
 
 
 ascent. 
 
 It ceased — the murmur died upon 
 
 And hard- won victory ! 
 
 mine ear. 
 
 
 Straightway a threatening blast the 
 
 "If these pale lips, so soon to close 
 
 trmnpet gave ; 
 
 in death. 
 
 The next wind bore the seedling of 
 
 One touch of hope or solace can im- 
 
 the year 
 
 part, 
 
 On to its snowy grave ! 
 
 Mary Clemmer. 
 
 WORDS FOR PARTING. 
 
 Oh, what shall I do, dear, 
 
 In the coming years, I wonder, 
 "When our paths, which lie so sweetly 
 near, 
 
 Shall lie so far asunder ? 
 Oh, what shall I do, dear. 
 
 Through all the sad to-morrows. 
 When the sunny smile has ceased to 
 cheer 
 
 That smiles away my sorrows ? 
 
 What shall I do, my friend. 
 When you are gone forever ? 
 
 My heart its eager need will send 
 Through the years to find you 
 never. 
 
 And how will it be with you. 
 In the weary world, I wonder, 
 
 Will you love me with a love as true, 
 When oiu" paths lie far asunder ? 
 
 A sweeter, sadder thing 
 
 My life, for having known you; 
 Forever with my sacred kin, 
 
 My soul's soul I must own you. 
 Forever mine, my friend. 
 
 From June to life's December; 
 Not mine to have or hold. 
 
 But to pray for and remember. 
 
 The way is short, O friend. 
 
 That reaches out before us ; 
 God's tender heavens above us bend, 
 
 His love is smiling o'er us; 
 A little while is ours 
 
 For sorrow or for laughter ; 
 I'll lay the hand you love in yours 
 
 On the shore of the Hereafter. 
 
NANTASKET. 
 
 Fair is thy face, Nantasket, 
 
 And fair tliy curving shores, — 
 The peering spires of villages, 
 
 The boatman's dipping oars. 
 The lonely ledge of Minot, 
 
 Where the watchman tends his 
 light, 
 And sets his perilous beacon, 
 
 A star in the stormiest night. 
 
 Over thy vast sea highway. 
 
 The great ships slide from sight. 
 And flocks of winged phantoms 
 
 Flit by, like birds in flight. 
 Over the toppling sea-wall 
 
 The home-bound dories float, 
 And I watch the patient fisherman 
 
 Bend in his anchored boat. 
 
 I am alone with Nature ; 
 
 "With the glad September day. 
 The leaning hills above me 
 
 With golden-rod are gay, 
 Across tlie fields of ether 
 
 Flit butterflies at play. 
 And cones of garnet sumach 
 
 Glow down the country way. 
 
 The autumn dandelion 
 
 Along the roadside burns ; 
 Down from the lichened boulders 
 
 Quiver the plumed ferns; 
 The cream-white silk of the milkweed 
 
 Floats from its sea-green pod ; 
 Out from the mossy rock-seams 
 
 Flashes the golden-rod. 
 
 The woodbine's scarlet banners 
 
 Flaunt from their towers of stone; 
 The wan, wild morning-glory 
 
 Dies by the road alone ; 
 By the hill-path to the seaside 
 
 Wave myriad azure bells ; 
 And over the grassy ramparts lean 
 
 The milky immortelles. 
 
 Hosts of gold-hearted daisies 
 
 Nod by the wayside bars ; 
 The tangled thicket of green is set 
 
 With the aster's purple stars; 
 
 Beside the brook the gentian 
 
 Closes its fringed eyes. 
 And waits the later glory 
 
 Of October's yellow skies. 
 
 Within the sea-washed meadow 
 
 The wild grape climbs the wall, 
 And from the o'er-ripe chestnuts 
 
 The brown burs softly fall. 
 I see the tall reeds shiver 
 
 Beside the salt sea marge ; 
 I see the sea-bird glimmer. 
 
 Far out on airy barge. 
 
 I hear in the groves of Hingham 
 
 The friendly caw of the crow. 
 Till I sit again in AVachusett's woods, 
 
 In August's sumptuous glow. 
 The tiny boom of the beetle 
 
 Strikes the shining rocks below; 
 The gauzy oar of the dragon-fly 
 
 Is beating to and fro. 
 
 As the lovely ghost of the thistle 
 
 Goes sailing softly by ; 
 Glad in its second summer 
 
 Hums the awakened fly ; 
 The cumulate cry of the cricket 
 
 Pierces the amber noon ; 
 In from the vast sea-spaces comes 
 
 The clear call of the loon ; 
 Over and through it all I hear 
 
 Ocean's pervasive rune. 
 
 Against the warm sea-beaches 
 
 Bush the wavelets' eager lips; 
 4-way o'er the sapphire reaches 
 
 Move on the stately ships. 
 Peace floats on all their pennons, 
 
 Sailing silently the main. 
 As if never human anguish, 
 
 As if never human pain. 
 Sought the healing draught of Lethe, 
 
 Beyond the gleaming plain. 
 
 Fair is the earth behind me. 
 
 Vast is the sea before. 
 Away through the misty dimness 
 
 Glimmers a further shore. 
 It is no realm enchanted, 
 
 It cannot be more fair 
 Than this nook of Nature's Kingdom. 
 
 With its si)ell of space and air. 
 
C LOUGH. 
 
 131 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 I WAIT, — 
 Till from my veiled brows shall fall 
 This bafflinc cloud, this wearying 
 
 thrall,"' 
 Which holds nie now from knowing 
 
 all; 
 Until my spirit-sight shall see 
 Into all being's mystery. 
 See what it really is to be ! 
 
 I wait, — 
 Willie rolling days in mockery fling 
 Such cruel loss athwart my spring. 
 And life flags on with broken wing ; 
 Believing that a kindlier fate 
 
 The patient soul will compensate 
 For all it loses, ere too late. 
 
 I wait ! 
 For surely every scanty seed 
 I plant in weakness and in need 
 Will blossom in perfected deed ! 
 Mine eyes shall see its affluent crown, 
 Its fragrant fruitage, dropping down 
 Care's lowly levels, bare and brown! 
 
 I wait ! 
 The summer of the soul is long. 
 Its harvests yet shall round me throng 
 In perfect pomp of sun and song. 
 In stormless mornings yet to be 
 I'll pluck from life's full-fruited tree 
 The joy to-day denied to me. 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough. 
 
 NO MORE. 
 
 My wind has turned to bitter north, 
 
 That was so soft a south before ; 
 My sky, that shone so sunny bright, 
 
 With foggy gloom is clouded o'er; 
 My gay green leaves are yellow-black 
 
 Upon the dark autumnal floor ; 
 For love, departed once, comes back 
 
 No more again, no more. 
 
 to 
 
 A roofless ruin lies my home, 
 
 For winds to blow and rains 
 pour ; 
 One frosty night befell — and lo ! 
 
 I find my summer days are o'er. 
 The heart bereaved, of why and how 
 
 Unknowing, knows that yet before 
 It had what e'en to memory now 
 
 Returns no more, no more. 
 
 BECALMED AT EVE. 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side. 
 
 Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 
 Are scai-ce long leagues apart des- 
 cried ; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the 
 breeze. 
 And all the darkling hours they 
 plied ; 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same 
 seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 Of those whom, year by year un- 
 changed. 
 Brief absence joined anew, to feel, 
 Astounded, soul from soul es- 
 tranged. 
 
 At dead of night their sails were 
 filled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered ; 
 Ah ! neither blamed, for neither willed 
 Or wist what first with dawn ap- 
 peared. 
 
 To veer, how vain! On, onward 
 strain. 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness 
 too! 
 Through Minds and tides one com- 
 pass guides — 
 To that and your own selves be true. 
 
But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas, 
 Though ne'er that earUest parting 
 past, 
 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they 
 sought — 
 One pui-pose hold where'er they 
 fare; 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas. 
 At last, at last unite them there ! 
 
 NATUnA NATURANS. 
 
 Beside me, — in the car, — she sat; 
 
 She spake not, no, nor looked to 
 me. 
 From her to me, from me to her. 
 
 What passed so subtly, stealthily ? 
 As rose to rose, that by it blows. 
 
 Its interchanged aroma flings ; 
 Or wake to sound of one sweet note 
 
 The virtues of disparted strings. 
 
 Beside me, nought but tliis ? — but 
 this. 
 
 That influent; as within me dwelt 
 Her life; mine too within her breast, 
 
 Her brain, her eveiy limb, she felt. 
 We sat; while o'er and in us, more 
 
 And more, a power unknown pre- 
 vailed. 
 Inhaling and inhaled. — and still 
 
 'Twas one, inhaling or inhaled. 
 
 Beside me, nought but this; and 
 passed — 
 
 I passed ; and know not to this day 
 If gold or jet her girlish hair — 
 
 If black, or brown, or lucid-gray 
 Her eye's young glance. The fickle 
 chance 
 
 That joined us yet may join again ; 
 But I no face again could greet 
 
 As hers, whose life was in me then. 
 
 As unsuspecting mere a maid — 
 As fresh in maidhood's bloomiest 
 bloom — 
 
 In casual second-class did e'er 
 By casual youth her seat assume ; 
 
 Or vestal, say, of saintliest clay, 
 For once by balmiest airs betrayed 
 
 Unto emotions too, too sweet 
 To be unlingeringly gainsaid. 
 
 Unowning then, confusing soon 
 
 AVith dreamier dreams that o'er 
 the glass 
 Of shyly ripening woman-sense 
 
 Reflected, scarce reflected, pass — 
 A wife may be, a mother, she 
 
 In Hymen's shrine recalls not now 
 She first — in hour, ah, not profane ! — 
 
 With me to Hymen learnt to bow. 
 
 Ah no ! — yet owned we, fused in one, 
 
 The power Avhich, e'en in stones 
 and earths 
 By blind elections felt, in forms 
 
 Organic breeds to myriad births ; 
 By lichen small on granite wall 
 
 Ai^proved, its faintest, feeblest stir 
 Slow-spreading, strengthening long, 
 at last 
 
 Vibrated full in me and her. 
 
 In me and her sensation strange! 
 
 The lily grew to pendent head ; 
 To vernal airs the mossy bank 
 
 Its sheeny primrose spangles spread ; 
 In roof o'er roof of shade sun-proof 
 
 Did cedar strong itself outclimb; 
 And altitude of aloe proud 
 
 Aspire in floral crown sublime ; 
 
 Flashed flickering forth fantastic 
 flies; 
 
 Big bees their burly bodies swmig; 
 Rooks roused with civic din the elms; 
 
 And lark its wild reveille rimg; 
 In Libyan dell the light gazelle. 
 
 The leopard lithe in Indian glade, 
 And dolphin, brightening tropic seas, 
 
 In us were living, leapt and played. 
 
 Their shells did slow Crustacea build ; 
 Their gilded skins did snakes re- 
 new ; 
 While mightier spines for loftier kind 
 Their types in amplest limbs out- 
 grew; 
 Yea, close comprest in human breast, 
 What moss, and tree, and livelier 
 thincr — 
 
Such sweet preluding sense, of old 
 
 Led on in Eden's sinless place 
 The hour when bodies human 
 first 
 Combined the primal, prime em- 
 brace ; 
 Such genial heat the blissful seat 
 In man and woman owned un- 
 blamed. 
 
 When, naked both, its garden paths 
 They walked unconscious, un- 
 ashamed ; 
 
 Ere, clouded yet in mightiest dawn, 
 
 Above the horizon dusk and dun, 
 One mountain crest with light had 
 tipped 
 
 That orb that is the spirit's sun; 
 Ere dreamed young flowers in vernal 
 showers 
 
 Of fruit to rise the flower above. 
 Or ever yet to young Desire 
 
 Was told the mystic name of love. 
 
 
 Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 ADDRESS TO CERTAIN GOLD- 
 FISHES. 
 
 Restless forms of living light 
 Quivering on your lucid wings, 
 Cheating still the curious sight 
 With a thousand shadowings ; 
 Various as the tints of even. 
 Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, 
 Reflected on your native streams 
 In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams ! 
 Harmless warriors, clad in mail 
 Of silver breastplate, golden scale; — 
 Mail of Nature's own bestowing. 
 With peaceful radiance mildly glow- 
 ing- 
 Fleet are ye as fleetest galley 
 Or pirate rover sent from Sallee; 
 Keener than the Tartar's arrow, 
 iSport ye in your sea so narrow. 
 
 Was the sun himself your sire ? 
 Were ye born of vital fire ? 
 Or of the shade of golden flowers, 
 .Such as we fetch from Eastern bow- 
 ers, 
 To mock this murky clime of ours ? 
 Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, 
 AVeaving many a mazy dance; 
 Seeming still to grow in size 
 When ye would elude our eyes — 
 Pretty creatm-es ! we might deem 
 Ye were happy as ye seem — 
 
 As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, 
 As light, as loving, and as lithe. 
 As gladly earnest in your play. 
 As when ye gleamed in far Cathay. 
 
 And yet, since on this hapless earth 
 There's small sincerity in mirth. 
 And laughter oft is but an art 
 To drown the outcry of the heart ; 
 It may be that your ceaseless gambols. 
 Your wheelings, darlings, divings, 
 
 rambles. 
 Your restless roving round and round, 
 The circuit of your crystal bound — 
 Is but the task of weary pain, 
 An endless labor, dull and vain; 
 And while your forms are gaily shin- 
 ing. 
 Your little lives are inly pining! 
 Nay — but still I fain would dream 
 That ye are ha^jpy as ye seem. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. 
 
 Youth, thou art fled, — but where 
 
 are all the charms 
 Which, though with thee they came, 
 
 and passed with thee. 
 Should leave a perfume and sweet 
 
 memory 
 
134 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Of what they have been ? All thy 
 boons and harms 
 
 Have perished quite. Thy oft-re- 
 vered alarms 
 
 Forsake the fluttering echo. Smiles 
 and tears 
 
 Die on my cheek, or, petrified with 
 years, 
 
 Show the dull woe which no compas- 
 sion warms, 
 
 The mirth none shares. Yet could 
 a wish, a thought, 
 
 Unravel all the complex web of 
 age, — 
 
 Could all the characters that Time 
 hath wrought 
 
 Be clean effaced from my memorial 
 page 
 
 By one short word, the word I would 
 not say ; — 
 
 I thank my God because my hairs are 
 gray. 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The mellow year is hasting to its 
 close; 
 
 The little birds have almost sung 
 their last, 
 
 Their small notes twitter in the 
 dreary blast — 
 
 That shrill-piped harbinger of early 
 snows; — 
 
 The patient beauty of the scentless 
 rose. 
 
 Oft with the morn's hoar crystal 
 quaintly glassed. 
 
 Hangs a pale mourner for the sum- 
 mer past, 
 
 And makes a little summer where it 
 grows ; — 
 
 In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief 
 day 
 
 The dusky waters shudder as they 
 shine; 
 
 The russet leaves obstruct the strag- 
 gling way 
 
 Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks 
 define, 
 
 And the gaunt woods, in rag 
 
 scant array. 
 Wrap their old limbs with sombre 
 
 ivy-twine. 
 
 NO LIFE VAIN. 
 
 Let me not deem that I was made 
 
 in vain. 
 Or that my being was an accident, 
 Which fate, in working its sublime 
 
 intent. 
 Not wished to be, to hinder would 
 
 not deign. 
 Each drop uncounted in a storm of 
 
 rain 
 Hath its own mission, and is duly 
 
 sent 
 To its own leaf or blade, not idly 
 
 spent 
 'Mid myriad dimples on the shipless 
 
 main. 
 The very shadow of an insect's wing. 
 For which the violet cared not while 
 
 it stayed, 
 Yet felt the lighter for its vanishing. 
 Proved that the sun was shining by 
 
 its shade : 
 Then can a drop of the eternal spring. 
 Shadow of living lights, in vain be 
 
 made ? 
 
 SONG. 
 
 She is not fair to outward view, 
 
 As many maidens be. 
 Her loveliness I never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on mo; 
 Oh, then I saw her eye was bright, 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold, 
 To mine they ne'er reply: 
 
 And yet 1 cease not to behold 
 The lovelight in her eye. 
 
 Her very frowns are fairer far 
 
 Than smiles of other maidens are. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 185 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 [Passages from The Jiime of the Ancient 
 Mariner.] 
 
 THE SHIP BECALMED. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam 
 
 flew, 
 The furrow followed free ; 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 Into that silent sea, 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 
 
 down, 
 " Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky. 
 The bloody sun, at noon, 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day. 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water everywhere. 
 And all the boards did shrink; 
 AV'ater, water, everywhere, 
 Xor any drop to drink. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER REFRESHED 
 BY SLEEP AND RAIN- 
 
 SLEEP ! it is a gentle thing. 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 
 To Mary queen the praise be given ! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from heaven. 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck, 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 1 dreamt that they were filled with 
 
 dew ; 
 And when I awoke it rained. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was 
 
 cold. 
 My gannents all were dank. 
 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my 
 
 limbs: 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 Akound, around, flew each sweet 
 
 sound. 
 Then darted to the sun ; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again. 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 1 heard the sky-lark sing; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are. 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and 
 
 air 
 With their sweet jargoning! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song. 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 PENANCE OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 AND HIS REVERENT TEACHING. 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was 
 
 wrenched 
 With a woful agony. 
 Which forced me to begin my tale : 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 Since then at an imcertain hour, 
 That agony returns : 
 And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
I pass, like night, from land to land; 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that 
 
 door! 
 The wedding-guests are there: 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bridemaids singing are : 
 And hark the little vesper bell, 
 Which biddeth me to prayer! 
 
 O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath 
 
 been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea: 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me. 
 To walk together to the kirk, 
 With a goodly company ! 
 
 To walk together to the kirk. 
 And all together pray, 
 While each to his great Father bends, 
 Old men, and babes, and loving 
 
 friends 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
 To thee,thou Wedding-Guest! 
 He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us, 
 He made and loveth all. 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 AVhose beard with age is hoar. 
 Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He w^ent like one that hath been 
 
 stunned, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man, 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 [From ChrisiabeL] ^ 
 
 BROKEN FltlEynSHlPS. 
 
 Alas! they had been friends in 
 youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison 
 
 truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above; 
 And life is thorny; and youth is 
 
 vain; 
 And to be wroth with one we love, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
 With Koland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother: 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again! 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow heart from pain- 
 ing— 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asun- 
 der 
 A dreary sea now flows between ; — 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thun- 
 der, 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 The marks of that which once hath 
 been. 
 
 [From The Three Graves.] 
 BELL AND BROOK. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 
 
 To hear the Sabbath-bell. 
 ' Tis sweet to hear them both at once, 
 
 Deep in a woody dell. 
 
 [From Dejection.] 
 
 A GJUEF without a pang, void, dark, 
 and drear, 
 A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned 
 
 grief. 
 Which finds no natural outlet, no 
 relief. 
 In word, or sigh, or tear — 
 O lady! in this wan and heartless 
 mood. 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle 
 
 wooed, 
 All this long eve, so balmy and se- 
 rene. 
 Have I been gazing on the western 
 
 sky, 
 And its pecular tint of yellow 
 
 green : 
 And still I gaze — and with how 
 
 blank an eye! 
 And those thin clouds above, in 
 
 flakes and bars. 
 That give away their motion to the 
 
 stars ; 
 Those stars, that glide behind them 
 
 or between, 
 Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but 
 
 always seen : 
 Yon crescent moon as fixed as if it 
 
 grew 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of 
 
 blue ; 
 I see them all so excellently fair, 
 I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 
 
 My genial spirits fail; 
 And what can these avail 
 To lift the smothering weight from 
 off my breast ? 
 It were a vain endeavor, 
 Though I should gaze forever 
 On that green light that lingers in 
 
 the west: 
 I may not hope from outward forms 
 
 to win 
 The passion and the life, whose 
 fountains are within. 
 
 O Lady I we receive but what we give, 
 
 And in our life alone does nature live : 
 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours 
 her shroud ! 
 And would we aught behold, of 
 higher worth, 
 
 Than that inanimate cold world al- 
 lowed 
 
 To the poor loveless, ever-anxious 
 crowd. 
 Ah I from the soul itself must issue 
 forth, 
 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 Enveloping the earth — 
 
 And from the soul itself must there 
 be sent 
 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its 
 own birth, 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and ele- 
 ment ! 
 
 O pure of heart! thou need'st not 
 ask of me 
 
 What this strong music in the soul 
 may be ! 
 
 \\Tiat, and wherein it doth exist, 
 
 This light, this glory, this fair lumi- 
 nous mist. 
 
 This beautiful and beauty-making 
 power. 
 Joy, virtuous lady, — joy that 
 ne'er was given. 
 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest 
 hour, 
 
 Life, and life's effluence, cloud at 
 once and shower 
 
 Joy, lady, is the spirit and the power, 
 
 YyTiich wedding Nature to us gives 
 in dower, 
 A new earth and new heaven, 
 
 LTndreamt of by the sensual and the 
 proud — 
 
 Joy is the sweet voice, joy the lumi- 
 nous cloud — 
 We in ourselves rejoice! 
 
 And thence flows all that cliarms or 
 ear or sight. 
 All melodies the echoes of that 
 voice. 
 
 All colors a suffusion from that light. 
 
 There was a time when, though my 
 
 path was rough, 
 This joy within "me dallied with 
 
 distress. 
 And all misfortimes were but as the 
 
 stuff 
 Whence Fancy made me dreams of 
 
 happiness : 
 For hope grew round me, like the 
 
 twining vine. 
 And fruits, and foliage, not my own, 
 
 seemed mine. 
 But now afflictions bow me down to 
 
 earth : 
 Nor care I that they rob me of my 
 
 mirth. 
 But oh ! each visitation 
 Suspends wliat nature gave me at my 
 
 birth, 
 
138 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 My shaping spirit of imagination. 
 For not to tliink of what I needs 
 must feel. 
 But to be still and patient, all J 
 can; 
 And haply by abstruse research to 
 steal 
 From my own nature all the nat- 
 ural man — 
 This was my sole resource, my only 
 plan: 
 Till that which suits a part infects 
 
 the whole. 
 And now is almost grown the habit 
 of my soul. 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil 
 
 around my mind, 
 Reality's dark dream! 
 I turn from you, and listen to the 
 
 wind, 
 
 Thou actor, perfect in all tragic 
 sounds ! 
 Thou mighty poet, e'en to frenzy 
 bold ! 
 What tell'st thou now about ? 
 'Tis of the rushing of a host in 
 rout. 
 With groans of trampled men, with 
 smarting wounds — 
 At once they groan with pain, and 
 
 shudder A\ith the cold ! 
 But hush! there is a pause of deepest 
 silence! 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing 
 crowd. 
 With groans, and tremulous shudder- 
 ings — all is over — 
 It tells another tale, with sounds 
 less deep and loud ! 
 A tale of less affright, 
 And tempered witli delight. 
 As Otway's self had framed the ten- 
 der lay, 
 'Tis of a little child 
 Upon a lonesome wild, 
 Not far from home, but she hath 
 
 lost her way : 
 And now moans low in bitter grief 
 
 and fear, 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to 
 make her mother hear. 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IX THE 
 VALLEY OF CHAMOUNI. 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the 
 morning-star 
 
 In his steep course ? So long he 
 seems to pause 
 
 On thy bald awful head, O sovran 
 Blanc! 
 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy 
 base 
 
 Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most aw- 
 ful form ! 
 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of 
 pines, 
 
 How silently! Around thee and above 
 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, 
 black. 
 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou pierc- 
 est it. 
 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look 
 again. 
 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crys- 
 tal shrine, 
 
 Thy habitation from eternity! 
 
 dread and silent mount! I gazed 
 
 upon thee. 
 
 Till thou, still present to. the bodily 
 sense. 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought: en- 
 tranced in prayer 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling 
 melody, 
 
 So sweet, we know not we are listen- 
 ing to it. 
 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending 
 with my thought. 
 
 Yea, with my life, and life's own se- 
 cret joy : 
 
 Till the dilating soul, enwrapt, 
 transfused. 
 
 Into the mighty vision passing — 
 there 
 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast 
 to Heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive 
 
 praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling 
 
 tears. 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! 
 
 Awake, 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 Voice of sweet song. Awake, my 
 
 heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my 
 
 hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovran 
 
 of the vale ! 
 Oh, struggling with the darkness all 
 
 the night, 
 And visited all night by troops of 
 
 stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky or when 
 
 they sink: 
 Companion of the morning-star at 
 
 dawn, 
 Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the 
 
 dawn 
 Co-herald : wake, oh, wake, and utter 
 
 praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in 
 
 earth ? 
 Who filled thy countenance with 
 
 rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual 
 
 streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents 
 fiercely glad ! 
 
 Who called you forth from night and 
 utter death, 
 
 From dark and icy caverns called you 
 forth, 
 
 Down those precipitous, black, jag- 
 ged rocks, 
 
 For ever shattered and the same for 
 ever ? 
 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, 
 and your joy, 
 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 
 And who commanded (and the si- 
 lence came,) 
 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have 
 rest? 
 
 Ye ice-falls I ye that from the 
 mountain's brow 
 
 Adown enormous ravines slope 
 amain — 
 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a 
 mighty voice, 
 
 And stopped at once amid their mad- 
 dest plunge! 
 
 Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 
 
 Who made you glorious as the gates 
 
 of Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who 
 
 bade the sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? Who. 
 
 with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at 
 
 your feet ? — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of 
 
 nations. 
 Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, 
 
 God! 
 God ! sing ye meadow-streams, with 
 
 gladsome voice ! 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and 
 
 soul-like sounds ! 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles 
 
 of snow. 
 And in their perilous fall shall thun- 
 der, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eter- 
 nal frost! 
 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the 
 eagle's nest! 
 
 Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain 
 storm ! 
 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
 clouds ! 
 
 Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
 
 Utter forth God. and fill the hills 
 with praise ! 
 
 Thou too, hoar mount! with thy 
 
 sky-pointing peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, 
 
 unheard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering through 
 
 the pure serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil 
 
 thy breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous moini- 
 
 tain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile 
 
 bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suf- 
 fused with tears. 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory 
 
 cloud. 
 To rise before me — Rise, O ever 
 
 rise. 
 Rise like a cloud of incense, from the 
 
 earth! 
 
 189 
 
140 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Thou kingly spirit throned among 
 
 the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth 
 
 to Heaven, 
 Great hierarch! tell thou the silent 
 
 sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising 
 
 sun. 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, 
 
 praises God. 
 
 LOVE, HOPE AND PATIENCE IN 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 O'er wayward childhood would'st 
 
 thou hold firm rule, 
 And sun thee in the light of happy 
 
 faces ; 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, these 
 
 must be thy graces. 
 And in thine own heart let tliem first 
 
 keep school, 
 
 O part them never! If hope pros- 
 trate lie, 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 
 But Love is subtle, and doth proof 
 derive 
 
 From her own life that Hope is yet 
 alive; 
 
 And bending o'er with soul-transfus- 
 ing eyes, 
 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother 
 dove, 
 
 Woos back the fleeting spirit and 
 half -supplies; — 
 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what 
 Hope first gave to Love. 
 
 Yet haply tliere will come a weary 
 day 
 When overtasked at length 
 
 Botli Love and Hope beneath the 
 load give way. 
 
 Then with a statue's smile, a statue's 
 strength, 
 
 Stands the mute sister. Patience, 
 nothing loth, 
 
 And both si^pporting, does the work 
 of both. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Yehse, a breeze, mid blossoms stray- 
 ing. 
 Where hope clung fading, like a 
 
 bee — 
 Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
 With Natiu-e, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young ! 
 When I was young? — Ah, woful 
 
 when! 
 Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and 
 
 Then! 
 This breathing house not built with 
 
 hands, 
 This body that does me grievous 
 
 wrong, 
 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, 
 How lightly then it flashed along: — 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of 
 
 yore. 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or 
 
 weather 
 When youth and I lived in't togetlier. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower- 
 like; 
 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree; 
 
 O ! the joys, that came down sliower- 
 like, 
 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 Ere I was old. 
 
 Ere I was old ? All, woful ere. 
 
 Which tells me. Youth's no longer 
 here ! 
 
 Youth! for years so many and 
 
 sweet, 
 'Tis known, that thou and I were 
 
 one, 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 It cannot be. that thou art gone! 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yettolled : — 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 What strange disguise hast now put 
 
 on. 
 To make believe, that thou art gone ? 
 
 1 see these locks in silvery slips. 
 This drooping gait, this altered size: 
 But springtide blossoms on thy lips. 
 And tears take sunshine from thine 
 
 eyes! 
 
COLERIDGE. 
 
 141 
 
 Life is but thought: so think I 
 
 will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates 
 
 still. 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning 
 But tlie tears of mournful eve ! 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 
 When we are old : 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
 Like some poor nigli-related guest, 
 That may not rudely be dismist. 
 Yet hath outstayed his welcome 
 
 while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 COMPLAINT AND REPROOF. 
 
 How seldom, friend! a good great 
 
 man inherits 
 Honor or wealth, with all his worth 
 
 and pains ! 
 It soimds like stories from the land 
 
 of spirits. 
 If any man obtain that which he 
 
 merits, 
 Or any merit that which he obtains. 
 
 For shame, dear friend! renounce 
 tliis canting strain! 
 
 WTiat wouldst thou have a good 
 great man obtain ? 
 
 Place, titles, salary — a gilded chain — 
 
 Or throne of corses which his sword 
 hatli slain ? — 
 
 Greatness and goodness are not 
 means, but ends ! 
 
 Hatla he not always treasures, always 
 friends. 
 
 The good great man? — three treas- 
 ures, love and light, 
 
 And calm thoughts, regular as in- 
 fant's breath; — 
 
 And three firm friends, more sure 
 than day and night — 
 
 Himself, his Maker, and the angel 
 Death. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Am. thoughts, all passions, all de- 
 lights, 
 Whatever stirs tills mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again tliat happy hour. 
 When midway on the mount I lay. 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the 
 
 scene 
 Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve! 
 
 She leaned against the armed man, 
 The statue of the armed knight; 
 She stood and listened to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
 My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 1 sang an old and moving story — 
 An otd rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The lady of the land. 
 
 I told her how he pined : and ah I 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love, 
 Interijreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest 
 
 grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face! 
 
142 
 
 COLLIER. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely 
 
 knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain- 
 woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night: 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome 
 
 shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright; 
 And that he knew it was a fiend. 
 This miserable knight ! 
 
 And that luiknowing what he did. 
 He leaped amid a murderous band. 
 And saved from outrage worse than 
 death 
 The lady of the land ; — 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his 
 
 knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away. 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; — 
 
 His dying words — but when I reached 
 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty 
 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 
 Disturbed her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 
 The music and the doleful tale. 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle 
 
 hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 iSubdued and cherished long! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 She blushed with love and virgin 
 
 shame; 
 And like the murmvir of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepped 
 
 aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stept — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And bending back her head, looked 
 up. 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
 That I might rather feel than see. 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was 
 
 calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous bride. 
 
 Thomas Stephens Collier. 
 
 OFF LABRADOn. 
 
 The storm-wind moans through 
 
 branches bare; 
 
 The snow flies wildly through the air ; 
 
 The mad waves roar, as fierce and 
 
 high [sky. 
 
 Thev toss their crests against the 
 
 All dark and desolate lies the sand 
 Along the wastes of a barren 
 land; 
 And rushing on, with sheets flung 
 
 free, 
 A ship sails down from the north- 
 ern sea. 
 
 ^ 
 
COLLIER. 
 
 148 
 
 With lips pressed hard the helms- 
 man stands. 
 Grasping the spokes with freezing 
 hands, 
 While white the reef lies in his path, 
 Swept by an ocean full of wrath. 
 
 The surf-roar in the blast is lost. 
 The foam-flakes by the wild wind tost 
 High up in air, no warning show, 
 Hid by the driving mass of snow. 
 
 With sudden bound and sullen grate. 
 The brave ship rushes to her fate, 
 
 And splintered deck and broken 
 mast 
 
 Make homage to the roaring blast. 
 
 Amid the waves, float riven plank. 
 And rope and sail with moisture dank ; 
 And faces gleaming stern and 
 
 white 
 Shine dimly in the storm-filled 
 night. 
 
 By some bright river far away, 
 Fond hearts are ■wondering where 
 they stay 
 Who sleep along the wave-washed 
 
 shore 
 And stormy reefs of Labrador. 
 
 AN OCTOBER PICTURE. 
 
 The purple grapes hang ready for the 
 kiss 
 Of red lips sweeter than their wine ; 
 And 'mid the turning leaves they 
 soon will miss. 
 The crimson apples shine. 
 Lazily through the soft and sunlit air 
 The great hawks fly, and give no 
 heed 
 To the sweet songsters, that toward 
 the fair. 
 Far lands of summer speed. 
 
 Along the hills wild asters bend to 
 greet 
 The roadside' s wealth of golden-rod ; 
 And by the fences the bright su- 
 machs meet 
 The morning light of God. 
 
 Slowly the shadows of the clouds 
 drift o'er 
 The hillsides, clad in opal haze. 
 Where gorgeous butterflies seek the 
 rich store 
 Of flower-sprent summer days. 
 
 All clad in dusted gold, the tall elms 
 stand 
 Just in the edges of the wood ; 
 And near, the chestnut sentinels the 
 land. 
 And shows its russet hood. 
 
 The maple flaunts its scarlet banners 
 where 
 The marsh lies clad in shining mist ; 
 The mountain oak shows, in the 
 clear, bright air. 
 Its crown of amethyst. 
 
 Where, like a silver line, the spark- 
 ling stream 
 Flows murmuring through the 
 meadows brown. 
 Amid the radiance, seeming a sad 
 dream, 
 A sailless boat floats down. 
 
 COMPLETE. 
 
 LiKK morning blooms that meet the 
 
 sun 
 With all the fragrant freshness won 
 From night's repose, and kiss of dew 
 Which the bright radiance glistens 
 
 through, 
 Such is the sweetness of thy lips, 
 AVhere love its sacred tribute sips : 
 Such is the glory of thine eyes, 
 Fiich with the soul's unsaid replies. 
 
 The snow that crowns the mountain 
 height, [white; 
 
 Through countless years of gleaming 
 The creamy blooms of orchard trees. 
 Full of the melody of bees ; 
 The cool, fresh sweetness of the sea; 
 All have a charm possessed by thee : 
 But each of these has one alone. 
 Whilst thou canst call them all thine 
 own. 
 
COLLINS. 
 
 Mortimer Collins. 
 
 IN VIEW OF DEATH. 
 
 Xo; I shall pass into the Morning 
 Land 
 
 As now from sleep into the life of 
 morn ; 
 
 Live the new life of the new world, 
 unshorn 
 Of the swift brain, the executing 
 hand ; 
 
 See the dense darkness suddenly 
 withdrawn, 
 
 As when Orion's sightless eyes dis- 
 cerned the dawn. 
 
 I shall behold it; I shall see the 
 utter 
 
 Glory of sunrise heretofore un- 
 seen, 
 
 Freshening the woodland ways with 
 brighter green, 
 And calling into life all wings that 
 flutter. 
 
 All throats of music and all eyes of 
 light. 
 
 And driving o'er the verge the in- 
 tolerable night. 
 
 O virgin world ! O marvellous far 
 
 days! 
 No more with dreams of grief doth 
 
 love grow bitter, [glitter 
 
 Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to 
 
 In happy eyes. Decay alone decays : 
 
 A moment — death's dull sleep is 
 
 o'er; and we 
 Drink the immortal morning air 
 
 Earine. 
 
 LAST VERSES. 
 
 I HAVE been sitting alone 
 
 All day while the clouds went by, 
 
 While moved the strength of the 
 seas. 
 While a wind with a will of his own, 
 
 A poet out of the sky. 
 
 Smote the green harp of the trees. 
 
 Alone, yet not alone, 
 
 For I felt, as the gay wind whirled. 
 
 As the cloudy sky grew clear. 
 The touch of our Father half-known, 
 
 Who dwells at the heart of the world, 
 
 Yet who is always here. 
 
 William Collins. 
 
 ODE TO SIMPLICITY. 
 
 O THOU, by Nature taught 
 To breathe" her genuine thought. 
 In numbers warmly pure, and sweet- 
 ly strong; 
 Wlio first, on mountains wild. 
 In Fancy, loveliest child. 
 Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the 
 powers of song! 
 
 Thou, who, with hermit heart, 
 Disdain'st the wealth of art. 
 And gauds, and pageant weeds, and 
 trailing pall; 
 
 But com'st a decent maid, 
 In Attic robe arrayed, 
 O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee 
 I call! 
 
 O sister meek of Truth, 
 To my admiring youth. 
 Thy sober aid and native charms in- 
 fuse I 
 The flowers that sweetest breathe, 
 Though Beauty culled the wreath. 
 Still ask thy hand to range their or- 
 dered hues. 
 
COLLINS. 
 
 145 
 
 Though taste, though genius, bless. 
 To some divine excess, 
 Faints the cold work till thou inspire 
 the whole ; 
 What each, wiiat all supply, 
 May court, may charm, our eye; 
 Thou, only thou, canst raise the 
 meeting soul ! 
 
 Of these let others ask, 
 
 To aid some mighty task, 
 I only seek to find thy temperate vale ; 
 
 Where oft my reed might sound 
 
 To maids and shepherds round. 
 And all thy sons, O Nature, learn 
 my tale. 
 
 ODE TO THE BRAVE. 
 
 HoAV sleep the brave, who sink to 
 
 rest, 
 By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold , 
 Eeturns to deck their hallowed mould. 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
 There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray. 
 To bless the turf that wraps their 
 
 clay; 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
 To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! 
 
 ON TRUE AND FALSE TASTE IN 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Discard soft nonsense in a slavish 
 tongue, 
 
 The strain insipid, and the thought 
 unknown ; 
 
 From truth and nature form the mi- 
 erring test ; 
 
 Be what is'manly, chaste, and good 
 the best ! 
 
 'Tis not to ape the songsters of the 
 groves, 
 
 Through all the quivers of their wan- 
 ton loves; 
 
 'Tis not the enfeebled thrill, or war- 
 bled shake, 
 The heart can strengthen, or the soul 
 
 awake ! 
 But where the force of energy is 
 
 found. 
 When the sense rises on the wings of 
 
 sound ; 
 When reason, with the charms of 
 
 music twined. 
 Through the enraptured ear informs 
 
 the mind ; 
 Bids generous love or soft compassion 
 
 glow. 
 And forms a tuneful Paradise below ! 
 
 THE PASSIONS. 
 AN ODE FOR MUSIC. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was 
 
 young, 
 While yet in early Greece she sung. 
 The Passions oft, to hear her shell. 
 Thronged around her magic cell. 
 Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, 
 Possest beyond the Muse's painting; 
 By turns they felt the glowing mind 
 Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined: 
 Till once, 'tis said, when all were 
 
 fired. 
 Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, 
 From the supporting myrtles round 
 They snatched her instruments of 
 
 sound : 
 And, as they oft had heard apart 
 Sweet lessons of her forcefvd art, 
 Each (for Madness ruled the hour) 
 Would prove his own expressive 
 
 power. 
 
 First Fear his hand, its skill to try. 
 Amid the chords bewildered laid. 
 
 And back recoiled, he knew not why. 
 E'en at the sound himself had 
 made. 
 
 Next Anger rushed ; his eyes on fire. 
 In lightnings owned his secret 
 stings ; 
 In one rude clash he struck the lyre. 
 And swept with hurried hands the 
 strings. 
 
With woful measures wan Despair 
 Low, sullen sounds his grief be- 
 guiled ; 
 A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 
 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas 
 wild ! 
 
 But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, 
 What was thy delighted measure"? 
 Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
 And bade the lovely scenes at dis- 
 tance hail ! 
 Still would her touch the strain pro- 
 long; 
 And from the rocks, the woods, the 
 vale. 
 She called on Echo still, through all 
 the song; 
 And where her sweetest theme she 
 
 chose, 
 A soft responsive voice was heard 
 at every close. 
 And Hope enchanted smiled, and 
 
 waved her golden hair. 
 And longer had she smig; — but with 
 a frown. 
 Revenge impatient rose; 
 He threw his blood-stained sword, in 
 thunder, down; 
 And with a withering look. 
 The war-denouncing trumpet took. 
 And blew a blast so loud and dread, 
 AVere ne'er prophetic sounds so full 
 of woe ! 
 And, ever and anon, he beat 
 The doubling drum, with furious 
 heat; 
 .\nd though sometimes, each dreary 
 pause between. 
 Dejected Pity, at his side. 
 Her soul-subduing voice applied. 
 Yet still he kept his wild unaltered 
 mien, 
 While each strained ball of sight 
 seemed bursting from his head. 
 
 Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought 
 were fixed; 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state; 
 
 Of differing themes the veering song 
 was mixed ; 
 
 And now it courted Love, now rav- 
 ing called on Hate. 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one inspired, 
 Pale Melancholy sate retired ; 
 And, from her wild sequestered seat, 
 In notes by distance made more 
 
 sweet. 
 Poured through the mellow horn her 
 pensive soul : 
 And, dashing soft from rocks 
 
 around. 
 Bubbling runnels joined the sound; 
 Through glades and glooms the min- 
 gled measures stole. 
 Or, o'er some haunted stream, with 
 fond delay. 
 Round an holy calm diffusing, 
 Love of Peace. and lonely musing. 
 In hollow murmiirs died away. 
 
 ButO! how altered was its spright- 
 
 lier tone. 
 When Cheerfulness, a nymph of 
 healthiest hue. 
 Her bow across her shoulder flung. 
 Her buskins gemmed with morning 
 dew. 
 Blew an inspiring air, that dale and 
 thicket rung. 
 The hunter's call, to Faun and 
 Dryad known ! 
 The oak-crowned Sisters, and their 
 chaste-eyed Queen, 
 Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, 
 Peeping from forth their alleys 
 green : 
 Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; 
 And Sport leapt up, and seized his 
 beechen spear. 
 
 Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: 
 He, with viny crown advancing. 
 First to the lively pipe his hand 
 addrest ; 
 But soon he saw the brisk awakening 
 viol. 
 Whose sweet entrancing voice he 
 loved the best ; . 
 They would have thought who heard 
 the strain 
 They saw, in Terape's vale, her 
 
 native maids. 
 Amidst the festal sounding shades, 
 To some unwearied minstrel dancing, 
 Wliile, as his flying fingers kissed the 
 strings, 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 147 
 
 Love framed with Mirth a gay fan- 
 tastic round ; 
 
 Loose were her tresses seen, her 
 zone unbound ; 
 
 And he, amidst his frolic play, 
 
 As if lie would the channiug air 
 repay, 
 Shook thousand odors from his dewy 
 wings. 
 
 O Music! sphere-descended maid. 
 Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid! 
 Why, goddess! why, to us denied. 
 Lay' St thou thy ancient lyre aside ? 
 As, in that loved Athenian bower. 
 You learned an all-commanding 
 
 power, 
 Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endeared, 
 Can well recall what then it heard; 
 Where is thy native simple heart, 
 Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art '? 
 Arise, as in that elder time. 
 Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! 
 Thy wonders, in that godlike age. 
 Fill thy recording sister's page — 
 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, 
 Thy humblest reed could more pre- 
 vail. 
 Had more of strength, diviner rage, 
 Than all which charms this laggard 
 
 age; 
 E'en all at once together found, 
 Cecilia's mingled world of sound — 
 O bid our vain endeavors cease ; 
 Revive the just designs of Greece: 
 Keturn in all thy simple state! 
 ( 'onfirm the tales her sons relate ! 
 
 ODE TO EVENING. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral 
 
 song. 
 May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy 
 modest ear. 
 Like thy own brawling springs. 
 Thy springs and dying gales; 
 
 O nymph reserved, while now the 
 
 bright-haired sun 
 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy 
 skirts, 
 With brede ethereal wove 
 O'erhang his wavy bed: 
 
 Now air is hushed, save where the 
 
 weak-eyed bat 
 With short shrill shriek flits by on 
 leathern wing; 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 His small but sullen horn. 
 
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight 
 
 path. 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless 
 hum : 
 Now teach me, maid composed. 
 To breathe some softened strain, 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy 
 
 darkening vale, 
 May not unseemly with its stillness 
 suit; 
 As, musing slow, I hail 
 Thy genial loved return ! 
 
 For when thy folding-star, arising 
 shows 
 
 His paly circlet, — at his warning lamp 
 The fragrant Hours, and elves 
 Who slept in buds the day, 
 
 And many a nymph who wreathes 
 
 her brows with sedge, 
 And sheds the freshening dew, and. 
 lovelier still. 
 The pensive Pleasiu-es sweet. 
 Prepare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then let me ro've some wild and 
 
 heathy scene; 
 Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary 
 dells. 
 Whose walls more awful nod 
 By thy religious gleams. 
 
 Or, if chill blustering winds, or driv- 
 ing rain 
 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the 
 hut, 
 That, from the mountain's side. 
 Views wilds, and swelling floods, 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discov- 
 ered spires; 
 And hears their simple bell, and 
 marks o'er all 
 Thy dewy fingers draw 
 The gradual dusky veil. 
 
148 
 
 COLLINS. 
 
 While Spring shall pour his showers 
 
 as oft he wont, 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, 
 meekest Eve! 
 While Summer loves to sport 
 Beneath thy lingering light; 
 
 While sallow Autumn fills thy lap 
 
 with leaves; 
 Or Winter, yelling through the troub- 
 lous air. 
 Affrights thy shrinking train, 
 And rudely rends thy robes; 
 
 So long, regardful of thy quiet rule. 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, 
 smiling Peace, 
 Thy gentlest Influence own. 
 And love thy favorite name ! 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON. 
 
 [The scene is supposed to lie on the 
 Thames, near RichiiKnid.] 
 
 In yonder grave a Druid lies. 
 Where slowly v/inds the stealing 
 wave ; 
 The year's best sweets shall duteous 
 rise 
 To deck its poet's sylvan grave. 
 
 In yon deep bed of whispering reeds 
 
 His airy harp shall now be laid. 
 That he, whose heart in sorrow 
 bleeds. 
 May love through life the soothing 
 shade. 
 
 Then maids and youths shall linger 
 here, 
 And while its sounds at distance 
 swell. 
 Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear 
 
 To hear the woodland pilgrim's 
 knell. 
 
 Remembrance oft shall haunt the 
 shore 
 When Thames in summer wreaths 
 is drest, 
 
 And oft suspend the dashing oar, 
 To bid his gentle spirit rest ! 
 
 And oft, as Ease and Health retire 
 
 To breezy lawn, or forest deep, 
 The friend shall view yon whitening 
 spire 
 And 'mid the varied landscape 
 weep. 
 
 But thou, who own'st that earthly 
 bed. 
 Ah! what will every dirge avail; 
 Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, 
 That mourn beneath the gliding 
 sail ? 
 
 Yet lives there one whose heedless 
 eye 
 Shall scorn thy pale shrine glim- 
 mering near ? 
 With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die. 
 And Joy desert the blooming year. 
 
 But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen 
 tide 
 No sedge-crowned sisters now at- 
 tend, 
 Now waft me from the green hill's 
 side, 
 Whose cold turf hides the biu'ied 
 friend ! 
 
 And see, the fairy valleys fade; 
 
 Dun night has veiled the solemn 
 view ! 
 Yet once again, dear parted shade. 
 
 Meek Nature's child, again adieu! 
 
 The genial meads, assigned to bless 
 Thy life, shall mourn thy early 
 doom ; 
 Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall 
 dress, 
 With simple hands, thy rural tomb. 
 
 Long, long, thy stone and pointed 
 
 clay 
 
 Shall meltthe musing Briton's eyes : 
 
 "O vales and wild woods!"' shall he 
 
 say, 
 
 ' ' In yonder grave your Druid lies I ' ' 
 
COOK. 
 
 149 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 SONG OF 'THE HE MP SEED. 
 
 Ay, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring 
 day; 
 Wide and far be the hempseed sown: 
 And bravely I'll stand on the autumn 
 land, 
 When the rains have dropped and 
 the winds have blown 
 Man shall carefully gather me up; 
 His hand shall rule and my form 
 shall change; 
 Not as a mate for the purple of state, 
 Nor into aught that is "rich and 
 strange." 
 But 1 will come forth all woven and 
 spun, 
 With my fine threads curled in ser- 
 pent length ; 
 And the fire-wrought chain and the 
 lion's thick mane 
 Shall be rivalled by me in mighty 
 strength. 
 I have many a place in the busy world. 
 Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and 
 
 Joy; 
 
 I carry the freeman's flag unfurled; 
 I am linked to childhood's darling 
 
 toy. 
 Then scatter me wide, and hackle me 
 
 well ; 
 For a varied tale can the hempseed 
 
 tell. 
 
 Bravely I swing in the anchor-ring, 
 Where the foot of the proud man 
 cometh not; 
 WTiere the dolphin leaps and the sea- 
 weed creeps 
 O'er the rifted sand and the coral 
 grot. 
 Down, down below I merrily go 
 When the huge ship takes her rock- 
 ing rest : 
 The waters may chafe, but she dwell- 
 eth as safe 
 As the young bird in its woodland 
 nest. 
 I wreathe the spars of that same fair 
 ship, [about: 
 
 Where the gallant sea-hearts cling 
 
 Springing aloft with a song on the lip, 
 Putting their faith in the cordage 
 
 stout, 
 I am true when the blast sways the 
 
 giant mast, 
 Straining and stretched in a nor'- 
 
 west gale, 
 I abide with the bark, in the day and 
 
 the dark, 
 Lashing the liammock and reefing 
 
 the sail. 
 f)h ! the billows and I right fairly 
 
 cope, 
 And the wild tide is stemmed by the 
 
 cable rope. 
 
 The sunshine falls on a new-made 
 grave, — 
 The funeral train is long and sad; 
 The poor man has come to the hap- 
 piest home 
 And easiest pillow he ever had. 
 I shall be there to lower him down 
 
 Gently into his narrow bed ; 
 I shall be there, the work to share. 
 To guard his feet, and cradle his 
 head. 
 
 Oh ! the hempseed cometh in doleful 
 
 shape. 
 With the mourner's cloak and sable 
 
 crape. 
 
 Harvest shall spread with its glitter- 
 ing Avheat, 
 The barn shall be opened, the stack 
 shall be piled ; 
 Ye shall see the ripe grain shining 
 out from the wain. 
 And the berry-stained arms of the 
 gleaner-child. 
 Heap on, heap on, till the wagon- 
 ribs creak, 
 Let the sheaves go towering to the 
 sky; 
 Up with the shock till the broad 
 wheels rock. 
 Fear not to carry the rich freight 
 high; 
 For I will infold the tottermg gold, 
 I will fetter the rolling load; 
 
Not an ear shall escape my binding 
 hold, 
 On the furrowed field or jolting 
 road. 
 
 Oh! the hempseed hath a fair place 
 to fill, 
 
 With the harvest band on the corn- 
 crowned hill. 
 
 AFTER A MOTHER'S DEATH. 
 
 TiiEY told me in my earlier years, 
 Life was a dark and tangled web; * 
 
 A gloomy sea of bitter tears, 
 Where Sorrow's influx had no ebb. 
 
 But such was vainly taught and said. 
 My laugh rang out with joyous tone ; 
 
 The woof possessed one brilliant 
 thread 
 Of rainbow colors, all my own. 
 
 I boasted — till a mother's grave 
 Was heaped and sodded — then I 
 foimd 
 
 The sunshine stricken from the wave. 
 And all the golden thread unwound. 
 
 Preach on who will — say "Life is 
 sad," 
 I'll not refute as once I did; 
 You'll find the eye that beamed so 
 glad, 
 Will hide a tear beneath its lid. 
 
 Preach on of woe; the time liatli been 
 I'd praise the world with shadeless 
 brow : 
 
 The dream is broken — I have seen 
 A mother die: — I'm silent now. 
 
 GANGING TO AND GANGING FRAE. 
 
 Nae star was glintin out aboon, 
 The cluds were dark and hid the 
 
 moon ; 
 The whistling gale was in my teeth. 
 And round me was the deep snaw 
 
 wreath ; 
 
 But on I went the dreary mile. 
 
 And simg right cantie a' the while 
 
 I gae my plaid a closer fauld ; 
 
 My hand was warm, my heart was 
 
 bauld, 
 I didna heed the storm and cauld, 
 
 While ganging to my Katie. 
 
 But when I trod the same way back. 
 It seemed a sad and waef u' track ; 
 The brae and glen were lone and lang; 
 I didna sing my cantie sang; 
 I felt how sharp the sleet did fa'. 
 And couldna face the wind at a'. 
 Oh, sic a change! how could it be ? 
 I ken fu' well, and sae may ye — 
 The sunshine had been gloom to nie 
 While ganging./V<((' my Katie. 
 
 MY OLD STRAW HAT. 
 
 Fareweli^, old friend, — we part at 
 
 last; 
 Fruits, flowers, and summer, all are 
 
 past. 
 And when the beech-leaves bid adieu. 
 My old straw hat must vanish too. 
 We've been together many an hour, 
 In grassy dell and garden bower; 
 And plait and riband, scorched and 
 
 torn. 
 Proclaim how Avell thou hast been 
 
 worn. 
 We've had a time, gay, bright, and 
 
 long ; 
 So let me "sing a grateful song. — 
 And if one bay-leaf falls to me, 
 I'll stick it firm and fast in thee, 
 
 My old straw hat. 
 
 Thy flapping shade and flying strings 
 Are worth a thousand close-tied 
 
 things. 
 I love thy easy-fitting crown. 
 Thrust lightly back, or slouching 
 
 down. 
 I cannot brook a muffled ear, 
 Wlien lark and blackbird whistle 
 
 near ; 
 And dearly like to meet and seek 
 The fresh wind with unguarded 
 
 cheek. 
 
COOKE. 
 
 151 
 
 Tossed in a tree, thou "It bear no 
 
 harm ; 
 Flung on the moss, thou "It lose no 
 
 charm ; 
 Like many a real friend on earth, 
 Rough usage only proves thy worth, 
 JNly old straw hat. 
 
 Farewell, old friend, thy work is done ; 
 The misty clouds shut out the sun; 
 The grapes are plucked, the hops are 
 
 - off. 
 The woods are stark, and I must doff 
 My old straw hat — but "bide a 
 
 wee," 
 Fair skies we've seen, yet we may see 
 Skies full as fair as those of yore, 
 And then we'll wander forth once 
 
 more. 
 Farewell, till drooping bluebells blow. 
 And violets stud the warm hedgerow ; 
 Farewell, till daisies deck the plain — 
 Farewell, till spring days come again — 
 My old straw hat. 
 
 SONG OF THE UGLY MAIDRX. 
 
 Oh ! the world gives little of love or 
 light. 
 
 Though my spirit pants for much ; 
 For 1 have no beauty for the sight, 
 
 No riches for the touch. 
 1 hear men sing o'er the flowing cup 
 
 Of woman's magic spell; 
 And vows of zeal they offer up, 
 
 And eloquent tales they tell. 
 They bravely swear to guard the fair 
 
 With strong protecting arms ; 
 
 But will they worship woman's worth 
 
 Unblent with woman's charms? 
 No! ah, no! 'tis little they prize 
 Crook-backed forms and rayless eyes. 
 
 Oh! 'tis a saddening thing to be 
 
 A poor and ugly one; 
 In the sand Time puts in his glass 
 for me. 
 
 Few golden atoms run. 
 For my drawn lids bear no shadowing 
 fringe ; 
 
 My locks are thin and dry; 
 My teeth wear not the rich pearl tinge, 
 
 Nor my lips the henna dye. 
 I know full well I have nought of 
 grace 
 
 That maketli woman ''divine;" 
 The wooer's praise and doting gaze 
 
 Have never yet been mine. 
 Where'er I go all eyes will shun 
 The loveless mien of the ugly one. 
 
 Would that I had passed away 
 
 Ere I knew that I was born ; 
 For I stand in the blessed light of day 
 
 Like a weed among the corn, — 
 The black rock in the wide blue sea, — 
 
 The snake in the jungle green: 
 Oh! who will stay in the fearful way 
 
 Where such ugly things are seen? 
 Yet mine is the fate of lonelier state 
 
 Than that of the snake or rock ; 
 For those who behold me in their 
 path 
 
 Not only shun, but mock. 
 O Ugliness! thy desolate pain 
 Had served to set the stamp on ("ain! 
 
 Philip Pendleton Cooke. 
 
 FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 I LOVED thee long and dearly, 
 
 Florence Vane: 
 My life's bright dream and early 
 
 Hath come again; 
 I renew, in my fond vision. 
 
 My heart's dear pain — 
 My hopes, and thy derision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The ruin, lone and hoary, 
 
 The ruin old 
 Where thou didst hark my story, 
 
 At even told — 
 That spot — the hues Elysian 
 
 Of sky and plain — 
 I treasure in my vision, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
152 
 
 COOKE. 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main. 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 * Florence Vane. 
 
 But, fairest, coldest wonder! 
 
 Thy glorious clay 
 Lieth the green sod luider — 
 
 Alas, the day ! 
 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain, 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep ; 
 The daisies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep. 
 May their bloom, in beauty vying, 
 
 Never wane 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 
 Florence Vane! 
 
 Rose Terry Cooke. 
 
 THE ICONOCLAST. 
 
 A THOUSAND years shall come and 
 go, 
 A thousand years of night and day; 
 And man, through all their changing 
 show. 
 His tragic drama still shall play. 
 
 Ruled by some fond ideal's power. 
 
 Cheated by passion or despair, 
 Still shall he waste life's trembling 
 hour. 
 In worship vain, and useless 
 prayer. 
 
 Ah! where are they who rose in 
 might, 
 Who tired the temple and the 
 shrine. 
 And hurled, through earth's chaotic 
 night. 
 The helpless gods it deemed di- 
 vine? 
 
 Cease, longing soid, thy vain desire! 
 
 What idol, in its stainless prime, 
 But falls, untouched of axe or tire. 
 
 Before the steady eyes of Time ? 
 
 He looks, and lo! our altars fall, 
 The shrine reveals its gilded clay, 
 
 With decent hands we spread the 
 pall. 
 And cold, with M'isdom, glide away. 
 
 O, where were courage, faith, and 
 truth. 
 If man went wandering all his day 
 In golden clouds of love and youth. 
 Nor knew that both his steps be- 
 tray ? 
 
 Come, Time, while here we sit and 
 wait. 
 Be faithful, spoiler, to thy trust! 
 No death can further desolate 
 The soul that knows its god was 
 dust. 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 Darlings of the forest! 
 Blossoming, alone. 
 When Earth's grief is sorest 
 For her jewels gone — 
 Ere the last snow-drift melts, your 
 tender buds have blown. 
 
 Tinged with color faintly, 
 Like the morning sky. 
 Or. more pale and saintly, 
 W^ rapped in leaves ye lie — 
 Even as children sleep in faith's sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 There the wild wood-robin, 
 Hymns your solitude ; 
 
COOLBBITH. 
 
 153 
 
 And the rain comes sobbing 
 Through the budding wood, 
 While the low south wind sighs, but 
 dare not be more rude. 
 
 Were your pure lips fashioned 
 Out of air and dew — 
 Starlight unimpassioned, 
 Dawn's most tender hue, 
 And scented by the woods that gath- 
 ered sweets for you ? 
 
 Fairest and most lonely, 
 From the woi'ld apart ; 
 Made for beauty only. 
 Veiled from Nature's heart 
 With such unconscious grace as 
 makes the dream of Art! 
 
 Were not mortal sorrow 
 An immortal shade. 
 Then would I to-morrow 
 Such a flower be made, 
 And live in the dear woods where my 
 lost childhood played. 
 
 THEN. 
 
 I GIVE thee treasures hour by hour, 
 That old-time princes asked in vain. 
 And pined for. in their useless power, 
 Or died of passion's eager pain. 
 
 1 give thee love as God gives light, 
 Aside from merit, or from prayer. 
 Rejoicing in its own delight. 
 And freer than the lavish air. 
 
 I give thee prayers, like jewels strung 
 On golden threads of hope and f^ar; 
 And tenderer thoughts than ever 
 
 hung 
 In a sad angel's pitying tear. 
 
 As earth pours freely to the sea 
 Her thousand streams of wealth un- 
 told, 
 So flows my silent life to thee, 
 Glad that its very sands are gold. 
 
 What care I for thy carelessness ? 
 I give from depths that overflow. 
 Regardless that their power to bless 
 Tliy spirit cannot sound or know. 
 
 Far lingering on a distant dawn 
 
 My triumph shines, more sweet than 
 late; 
 
 When from these mortal mists with- 
 drawn, 
 
 Thy heart shall know me — I can 
 wait. 
 
 INA D. COOLBRITH. 
 
 IJV BLOSSOM TIME. 
 
 It's O my heart, my heart, 
 To be out in the sun and sing! 
 
 To sing and shout in the fields .about, 
 In the balm and the blossoming. 
 
 Sing loud, O bird in the tree; 
 
 O bird, sing loud in the sky. 
 And honey-bees, blacken the clover 
 bed — 
 
 There are none of you glad as I. 
 
 The leaves laugh low in the wind. 
 Laugh low, with the wind at play ; 
 
 And the odorous call of the flowers all 
 Entices my soul away! 
 
 For oh, but the world is fair, is fair — 
 And oh, but the world is sweet! 
 
 I will out in the gold of the blossom- 
 ing mould. 
 And sit at the Master's feet. 
 
 And the love my heart would speak 
 I will fold in the lily's rim. 
 
 That the lips of the blossoms, more 
 pure and meek, 
 May offer it up to Him. 
 
COTTON. 
 
 Then sing in the hedgerow green, O 
 thrusli, 
 O skylark, sing in the blue: 
 Sing loud, sing clear, that the King 
 may hear, 
 And my soul shall sing with you! 
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 
 
 So fair the sun rose yestermorn, 
 The mountain cliffs adorning; 
 
 The golden tassels of the corn 
 Danced in the breath of morning; 
 
 The cool, clear stream that runs be- 
 fore. 
 Such happy words was saying. 
 
 And in the open cottage door 
 My pretty babe was playing. 
 
 Aslant the sill a sunbeam lay: 
 I laughed in careless pleasure. 
 
 To see his little hand essay 
 To grasp the shining treasure. 
 
 To-day no shafts of golden flame 
 
 Across the sill are lying; 
 To-day I call my baby's name. 
 
 And hear no lisped replying; 
 To-day — ah, baby mine, to-day - 
 
 God holds thee in his keeping! 
 And yet I weep, as one pale ray 
 
 Breaks in upon thy sleeping — 
 I weep to see its shining bands 
 
 Reach, with a fond endeavor. 
 To where the little restless hands 
 
 Are crossed in rest forever! 
 
 Charles Cotton. 
 
 [From Retirement .'\ 
 JN THE QUIET OF NATURE. 
 
 Farewell, thou busy world, and 
 may 
 We never meet again ; 
 Here I can eat, and sleep, and 
 pray, [day. 
 
 And do more good in one short 
 Than he who his whole age out- 
 wears 
 Upon the most conspicuous theatres, 
 Where nought but vanity and vice 
 appears. 
 
 Good God ! how sweet are all things 
 here ! 
 How beautifid the fields appear! 
 
 How cleanly do we feed and lie ! 
 Lord ! what good hours do we keep ! 
 How quietly we sleep ! 
 
 What peace, what luianimity! 
 How innocent from the lewd fashion, 
 Is all our business, all our recreation ! 
 
 Dear solitude, the soul's best 
 friend, 
 That man acquainted with himself 
 dost make. 
 
 And all his Maker's wonders to in- 
 tend. 
 With thee I here converse at 
 
 will, 
 And would be glad to do so still. 
 For it is thou alone that keep'st the 
 soul awake. 
 
 How calm and quiet a delight 
 
 Is it, alone 
 To read, and meditate, and write. 
 By none offended, and offending 
 none! 
 To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's 
 
 own ease; 
 And, pleasing a man's self, none 
 other to displease. 
 
 CON TEN TA TI ON. 
 
 I CAN go nowhere but I meet 
 With malcontents and nnUineers, 
 
 As if in life was nothing sweet, 
 And we must blessings reap In 
 teai's. 
 
Titles and wealth are fortune's toils, 
 
 Wherewith the vain themselves 
 
 ensnare : 
 
 The great are proud of borrowed 
 
 spoils, 
 
 The miser's plenty breeds his care. 
 
 The drudge who would all get, all 
 save, 
 Like a brute beast, both feeds and 
 lies; 
 Prone to the earth, he digs his 
 grave, 
 And in the very labor dies. 
 
 Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf 
 
 Does only death and danger breed; 
 Whilst one rich worldling starves 
 himself 
 With what would thousand others 
 feed. 
 
 Nor is he happier than these, 
 Who, in a moderate estate. 
 
 Where he might safely live at ease, 
 Has lusts that are immoderate. 
 
 Nor is he happy who is trim, 
 Tricked up in favors of the fair, 
 
 Mirrors, with every breath made 
 
 dim, [snare. 
 
 Birds, caught in every wanton 
 
 Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss. 
 Does oftener far than serve, en- 
 slave; 
 
 And with the magic of a kiss [save. 
 Destroys whom she was made to 
 
 There are no ills but what we make 
 By giving shapes and names to 
 things, — 
 
 Which is the dangerous mistake 
 That causes all our sufferings. 
 
 We call that sickness which is 
 health. 
 
 That persecution which is grace. 
 That poverty which is true wealth. 
 
 And that dishonor which is praise. 
 
 Alas ! our time is here so short 
 That in what state soe'er 't is 
 spent. 
 
 Of joy or woe, does not import. 
 Provided it be innocent. 
 
 But we may make it pleasant too. 
 If we will take our measures right, 
 
 And not what heaven has done undo 
 By an unruly appetite. 
 
 The world is full of beaten roads, 
 But yet so slippery withal, 
 
 That where one walks secure, 't is 
 odds 
 A hundred and a hundred fall. 
 
 Untrodden paths are then the best. 
 Where the frequented are unsure ; 
 
 And he comes soonest to his rest 
 Whose journey has been most se- 
 cure. 
 
 It is content alone that makes 
 Our pilgrimage a pleasure here; 
 
 And who buys sorrow cheapest takes 
 An ill commodity too dear. 
 
 Abraham 
 
 OF MYSELF. 
 
 This only grant me, that my means 
 
 may lie [liigh. 
 
 Too low for envy, for contempt too 
 
 Some honor I would have. 
 Not from great deeds, but good alone; 
 The unknown are better than ill 
 known : 
 Rumor can ope the grave. 
 
 Cowley. 
 
 Acquaintance I would have, but 
 
 when't depends 
 Not on the number, but the choice, 
 
 of friends. 
 
 Books should, not business, entertain 
 
 the light. 
 And sleep as undisturbed as death, 
 
 the night. 
 My house a cottage more 
 
156 
 
 COWLEY. 
 
 Than palace ; and should fitting be 
 For all my use, no luxury. 
 
 My garden painted o'er 
 With Nature's hand, not Art's; and 
 
 pleasures yield, 
 Horace might envy in his Sabine 
 
 field. 
 
 Thus would I double my life's fading 
 space ; 
 
 For he that runs it well twice runs 
 his race. 
 And in tliis true delight, 
 
 These unbought sports, this happy 
 state, 
 
 I would not fear, nor wish, my fate; 
 But boldly say each night. 
 
 To-morrow let my sun his beams dis- 
 play, 
 
 Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived 
 to-day. 
 
 ON THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. 
 
 Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts 
 
 the air. 
 
 How it outruns thy following eye ! 
 
 Use all persuasions now, and try 
 
 If thou canst call it back or stay it 
 
 there, 
 
 That way it went; but thou shalt 
 
 find 
 iSTo track is left behind. 
 
 Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond arch- 
 er, thou! 
 Of all the time thou'st shot 
 
 away, 
 I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday. 
 And it shall be too hard a task to do. 
 Beside repentance, what canst 
 
 find 
 That it hath left behind ? 
 
 But his past life, Avho without grief 
 can see. 
 Who never thinks his end too 
 near. 
 
 But says to Fame, Thou art 
 mine heir, — 
 That man extends life's natural 
 brevity : 
 This is, this is the only way 
 To outlive Nestor in a day. 
 
 I 
 
 [From Beaso7i.] 
 REASON AN AID TO REVELATION. 
 
 Though Reason cannot through 
 Faith's mysteries see, 
 It sees that there and ^uch there be, 
 Leads to heaven's door, and then 
 does humbly keep. 
 And then through chinks and key- 
 holes peep. 
 Though it, like Moses, by a sad com- 
 mand 
 Must not come into the Holy Land, 
 Yet thither it infallibly does guide, 
 And from afar 'tis all descried. 
 
 [From Friendship in Absence.] 
 
 DISTANCE NO BARRIER TO THE 
 SOUL. 
 
 When chance or cruel business parts 
 
 us two. 
 What do our souls, I wonder, do ? 
 Whilst sleep does our dull bodies tie, 
 Methinks at home they should not 
 
 stay 
 Content with dreams, — but boldly fly 
 Abroad, and meet each other half 
 
 the way. 
 
 'Twere an ill world, I'll swear, for 
 
 eveiy friend. 
 If distance could their union end : 
 But love itself does far advance 
 Above the power of time and space, 
 It scorns such outward circumstance, 
 His time 's forever, everywhere his 
 
 place. 
 
LIGHT SHINING OUT OF 
 DAIIKNESS. 
 
 God moves in a mysterious way 
 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Deep in unfatliomable mines 
 
 Of never-failing skill, 
 He treasures up His bright designs, 
 
 And works His sovereign will. 
 
 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take. 
 The clouds ye so much dread 
 
 Are big with mercy, and shall break 
 In blessings on your head. 
 
 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
 But trust Him for His grace ; 
 
 Behind a frowning providence 
 He hides a smiling face. 
 
 His purposes will ripen fast. 
 
 Unfolding every hoiu-; 
 The bud may have a bitter taste. 
 
 But sweet will be the flower. 
 
 Blind unbelief is sure to err. 
 And scan His work in vain : 
 
 God is His own interpreter. 
 And He will make it plain. 
 
 THE POPLAR FIELD. 
 
 The poplars are felled; farewell to 
 
 the shade, 
 And the whispering sound of the 
 
 cool colonnade! 
 The winds play no longer and sing in 
 
 the leaves, 
 Nor Ouse on his bosom their image 
 
 receives. 
 
 Twelve years have elapsed since I 
 
 first took a view 
 Of my favorite field, and the bank 
 
 where they grew; 
 
 And now in the grass behold they 
 
 are laid, 
 And the tree is my seat that once 
 
 lent me a shade ! 
 
 The blackbird has fied to another re- 
 treat, 
 
 Wliere the hazels afford him a screen 
 from the heat, 
 
 And the scene where his melody 
 charmed me before 
 
 Resounds with his sweet-flowing 
 ditty no more. 
 
 My fugitive years are all hasting 
 
 away. 
 And I must ere long lie as lowly as 
 
 they. 
 With a turf on my breast, and a 
 
 stone at my head. 
 Ere another such grove shall arise in 
 
 its stead. 
 
 'Tis a sight to engage me, if any- 
 thing can. 
 
 To muse on the perishing pleasures 
 of man ; 
 
 Though his life be a dream, his en- 
 joyments, 1 see. 
 
 Have a being less durable even than 
 he. 
 
 [From The Task.] 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO POPULAR 
 APPLAUSE. 
 
 O POPULAR applause! what heart 
 
 of man 
 Is proof against thy sweet seducing 
 
 charms ? 
 The wisest and the best feel urgent 
 
 need 
 Of all their caution in thy gentlest 
 
 gales ; 
 But swelled into a gust — who then, 
 
 alas ! 
 
158 
 
 COW PER. 
 
 With all his canvas set, and inexpert, 
 
 And therefore heedless, can with- 
 stand thy power ? 
 
 Praise from the rivelled lips of tooth- 
 less, bald 
 
 Decrepitude, and in the looks of 
 lean 
 
 And craving poverty, and in the bow 
 
 Respectful of the smutched artificer, 
 
 Is oft too welcome, and may much 
 disturb 
 
 The bias of the iiurpose. How 
 much more 
 
 Poured forth by beauty splendid and 
 polite, 
 
 In language soft as adoration 
 breathes ? 
 
 Ah, spare your idol! think him hu- 
 man still; 
 
 (.'harms he may have, but he has 
 frailties too; 
 
 Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye 
 admire. 
 
 \_From The Task.] 
 THE FREEDOM OF THE GOOD. 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth 
 
 makes free. 
 And all are slaves beside. There's 
 
 not a chain 
 That hellish foes confederate for his 
 
 harm 
 Can wind around him, but he casts 
 
 it off 
 With as nuicli ease as Samson his 
 
 green withes. 
 He looks abroad into the varied field 
 Of nature, and though poor perhaps, 
 
 compared 
 AVith those whose mansions glitter 
 
 in his sight, 
 Calls the delightful scenery all his 
 
 own. 
 His are the movmtains, and the val- 
 leys his, 
 And the I'esplendent rivers". 
 
 Yes — ye may fill your garners, ye 
 
 that reap 
 The loaded soil, and ye may waste 
 
 much good 
 
 In senseless riot; but ye will not find 
 
 In feast or in the chase, in song or 
 dance, 
 
 A liberty like his, who unimpeached 
 
 Of usurpation, and to no man's 
 wrong, 
 
 Appropriates nature as his Father's 
 work. 
 
 And has a richer use of yours, than 
 you. 
 
 He is indeed a freeman; free by birth 
 
 Of no mean city, planned or e'er the 
 hills 
 
 Were built, the fountains opened, or 
 the sea 
 
 With all his roaring multitude of 
 waves. 
 
 His freedom is the same in every 
 state ; 
 
 And no condition of this changeful 
 life, 
 
 ISo manifold in cares, whose every 
 day 
 
 Brings its own evil with it, makes it 
 less : 
 
 For he has wings that neither sick- 
 ness, pain. 
 
 Nor penury can cripple or confine. 
 
 No nook so narrow but he spreads 
 them there 
 
 With ease, and is at large. The op- 
 pressor holds 
 
 His body bound, but knows not 
 what a range 
 
 His si^irit takes, unconscious of a 
 chain. 
 
 And that to bind him is a vain at- 
 tempt 
 
 Whom God delights in, and in 
 whom he dwells. 
 
 [From The Task-.] 
 THE WIN^TER'S EVENING. 
 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shut- 
 ters fast, 
 
 Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa 
 round. 
 
 And, Avhile the bubbling and loud- 
 hissing urn 
 
 Throws up a steamy column, and 
 the cups. 
 
 
COWFER. 
 
 159 
 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on 
 
 each, 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in. 
 Not such his evening, who with shin- 
 ing face 
 Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, 
 
 squeezed 
 And bored with elbow-points through 
 
 both his sides, 
 Outscolds the ranting actor on the 
 
 stage : 
 Nor his, who patient stands till his 
 
 feet throb. 
 And his head thumps, to feed upon 
 
 the breath 
 Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage. 
 Or placemen, all tranquillity and 
 
 smiles. 
 This folio of four pages, happy work! 
 Which not even critics criticize; that 
 
 holds 
 Inquisitive attention, while I read. 
 Fast bound in chains of silence, which 
 
 the fair, 
 Though eloquent themselves, yet fear 
 
 to break; 
 What is it but a map of busy life, 
 Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? 
 
 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes 
 
 of retreat, 
 To peep at such a world ; to see the 
 
 stir 
 Of the great Babel, and not feel the 
 
 crowd ; 
 To hear the roar she sends through 
 
 all her gates 
 At a safe distance, where the dying 
 
 sound 
 Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured 
 
 ear. 
 Thus sitting, and surveying thus at 
 
 ease 
 The globe and its concerns, I seem 
 
 advanced 
 To some secure and more than mortal 
 
 height, 
 Tlaat liberates and exempts me from 
 
 them all. 
 It turns submitted to my view, turns 
 
 round 
 With all its generations ; I behold 
 The tumult, and am still. The sound 
 
 of war 
 
 Has lost its terrors ere It reaches me; 
 Grieves, but alarms me not. I movun 
 
 the pride 
 And avarice, that make man a wolf 
 
 to man; 
 Hear the faint echo of those brazen 
 
 throats. 
 By which he speaks the language of 
 
 his heart. 
 And sigh, but never tremble at the 
 
 sound. 
 He travels and expatiates, as the bee 
 From flower to floAver, so he from 
 
 land to land ; 
 The manners, customs, policy, of all 
 Pay contribution to the store he 
 
 gleans ; 
 He sucks intelligence in every clime, 
 And spreads the honey of his deep 
 
 research 
 At his return, — a rich repast for me. 
 He travels, and I too. I tread his 
 
 deck, 
 Ascend his topmast, through his 
 
 peering eyes 
 Discover countries, with a kindred 
 
 heart 
 Suffer his woes, and share in his es- 
 capes ; 
 While fancy, like the flnger of a 
 
 clock, 
 Runs the great circuit, and is still at 
 
 home. 
 
 winter, ruler of the inverted year. 
 Thy scattered hair with sleet like 
 
 ashes filled. 
 
 Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, 
 thy cheeks 
 
 Fringed with a beard made white with 
 other snoMS 
 
 Than those of age. thy forehead 
 wrapi)ed in clouds, 
 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and 
 thy throne 
 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 
 
 But urged by storms along its slip- 
 pery way, 
 
 1 love thee, all unlovely as thou 
 
 seem'st, 
 And dreaded as thou art! Thou 
 
 hold'st the sun 
 A prisoner in the yet undawning 
 
 east. 
 
Shortening his journey between morn 
 and noon. 
 
 And hurrying him, impatient of his 
 stay, 
 
 Down to the rosy west; but ] 
 
 ^h 
 
 lQ-2 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 But the soiuid of the church-going 
 bell, 
 These valleys and rocks never 
 heard, 
 Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, 
 Or smiled when a Sabbath ap- 
 peared. 
 
 Ye winds that have made me your 
 sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore, 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then 
 send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 O tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 How fleet is the glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its 
 flight. 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift-winged arrows of 
 light. 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there; 
 But alas ! recollection at hand 
 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair, 
 Even here is a season of rest, 
 
 And 1 to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy, encouraging thought ! 
 Gives even affliction a grace. 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 The twentieth year is Avell nigh past 
 Since first our sky was overcast ; — 
 Ah, would that this might be the last! 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 
 I see thee daily weaker grow; — 
 ' Twas my distress that brought thee 
 low, 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy needles, once a shining store, 
 For my sake restless heretofore. 
 Now rust disused, and shine no more, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
 The same kind otlice for me still, 
 Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 
 My Mary ! 
 
 But well thou play'dst the housewife's 
 
 part. 
 And all thy threads with magic art. 
 Have wound themselves about this 
 
 heart. 
 
 My Maiy ! 
 
 Thy indistinct expressions seem 
 Like language uttered in a dream: 
 Yet me they charm, whate'er the 
 theme. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
 Are still more lovely in my sight 
 Than golden beams of orient light. 
 My Mary ! 
 
 For could I view nor them nor thee, 
 What sight worth seeing could I 
 
 see ? 
 The sun would rise in vain for me. 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Partakers of thy sad decline, 
 Thy hands their little force resign : 
 Yet gently pressed, press gently mine. 
 My Mary ! 
 
 Such feebleness of limb thou provest. 
 That now at every step thou movest. 
 Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest. 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And still to love, though pressed with 
 
 ill. 
 In wintry age to feel no chill. 
 With me is "to be lovely still. 
 
 My Mary I 
 
 But ah ! by constant heed I know. 
 How oft the sadness that I show 
 Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe ! 
 My Mary ! 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With much resemblance of the past. 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 
 My Mary! 
 
CRABBE. 
 
 163 
 
 George Crabbe. 
 
 [From Edward Shore.] 
 THE PERILS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Genius ! thou gift of Heaven ! thou 
 light divine! 
 
 Amid wliat dangers art thou doomed 
 to sliine ! 
 
 Oft will the body's weakness check 
 thy force. 
 
 Oft damp thy vigor, and impede thy 
 course ; 
 
 And trembling nerves compel thee to 
 restrain 
 
 Thy nobler efforts, to contend Avith 
 pain : 
 
 Or Want (sad guest!) will in thy pres- 
 ence come, 
 
 And breathe around her melancholy 
 gloom : 
 
 To life's low cares will thy proud 
 thought confine, 
 
 And make her sufferings, her impa- 
 tience thine. 
 Evil and strong, seducing passions 
 prey 
 
 On soaring minds, and win them from 
 their way, 
 
 Who then to Vice the subject spirits 
 give, [live: 
 
 And in the service of the conqueror 
 
 Like captive Samson making s^jort 
 for all, 
 
 Who feared their strength, and glo- 
 ry in tlieir fall. 
 Genius, with virtue, still may lack 
 the aid 
 
 Implored by humble minds, and 
 hearts afraid : 
 
 May leave to timid souls the shield 
 and sword 
 
 Of the tried Faitli and the resistless 
 Word ; 
 
 Amid a world of dangers venturing 
 forth. 
 
 Frail, but yet fearless, proud in con- 
 scious worth, 
 
 Till strong temptation, in some fatal 
 time. 
 
 Assails the heart, and wins the soul 
 to crime; 
 
 When left by honor, and by sorrow 
 
 spent, 
 Unused to pray, unable to repent, 
 The nobler powers that once exalted 
 
 high 
 Th' aspiring man shall then degraded 
 
 lie: 
 Reason, through anguish, shall her 
 
 throne forsake. 
 And strength of mind but stronger 
 
 madness make. 
 
 [From Edivard Shore.] 
 
 SLEEP THE DETRACTOR OF 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 We indeed have heard 
 
 Of sleeping beauty, and it has ap- 
 peared : 
 
 'Tis seen in infants — there indeed 
 we find. 
 
 The features softened by the slum- 
 bering mind ; 
 
 But other beauties, when disposed to 
 sleep. 
 
 Should from the eye of keen inspec- 
 tor keep: 
 
 The lovely nymph who would her 
 swain surprise, 
 
 May close her mouth, but not conceal 
 her eyes ; 
 
 Sleep from the fairest face some 
 beauty takes. 
 
 And all the homely features homelier 
 makes. 
 
 [From Edward Shore.] 
 THE VACILLATING PURPOSE. 
 
 Who often reads will sometimes wish 
 
 to write. 
 And Shore would yield instruction 
 
 and delight; 
 A serious drama he designed, but 
 
 found 
 'T was tedious travelling in that 
 
 gloomy ground; 
 
CRABBE. 
 
 A deep and solemn story he would 
 
 try, 
 But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid 
 
 it by; 
 Sermons he wrote, but they who knew 
 
 his creed, 
 Or knew it not, were ill disposed to 
 
 read ; 
 And he would lastly be the nation's 
 
 guide. 
 But, studying, failed to fix upon a 
 
 side; 
 Fame he desired, and talents he pos- 
 sessed, 
 But loved not labor, though he could 
 
 not rest, 
 Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind. 
 That, ever working, could no centre 
 
 find. 
 
 Then cares domestic rush upon his 
 
 mind. 
 And half the ease and comfort he 
 
 enjoys. 
 Is when surrounded by slates, books, 
 
 and boys. 
 
 [From Schools.'] 
 THE TEACHER. 
 
 He, while his troop light-hearted leap 
 and play, 
 
 Is all intent on duties of the day; 
 
 No more the tyrant stern cv judge 
 severe. 
 
 He feels the father's and the hus- 
 band's fear. 
 Ah! little think the timid, trem- 
 bling crowd, 
 
 That one so wise, so powerful, and 
 so proud. 
 
 Should feel himself, and dread the 
 humble ills 
 
 Of rent-day charges and of coalmen's 
 bills; 
 
 That while they mercy from their 
 judge implore. 
 
 He fears himself — a knocking at the 
 door: 
 
 And feels the burden as his neighbor 
 states 
 
 His humble portion to the parish- 
 rates. 
 They sit the allotted hours, then 
 eager run, 
 
 Rushing to pleasure when the duty 's 
 done ; 
 
 His hour of pleasure is of different 
 kind. 
 
 [From Schools.] 
 LEARNING IS LABOR 
 
 To learning's second seats we now 
 
 proceed. 
 Where humming students gilded 
 
 primers read ; 
 Or books with letters large and pic- 
 tures gay. 
 To make their reading but a kind of 
 
 play — 
 ■' Reading made Easy,' so the titles 
 
 tell: 
 But they who read must first begin 
 
 to spell : 
 There may be profit in these arts, but 
 
 still. 
 Learning is labor, call it what you 
 
 will; 
 Upon the youthful mind a heavy load. 
 Nor must we hope to find the royal 
 
 road. 
 Some will their easy steps to science 
 
 show. 
 And some to heaven itself their by- 
 way know ; 
 Ah ! trust them not, — who fame or 
 
 bliss would share, 
 Must learn by labor, and must live by 
 
 care. 
 
 [From, the Gentleman Farmer.] 
 FOLLY OF LITIGATION. 
 
 Who would by law regain his plun- 
 dered store. 
 
 Would pick up fallen mercury from 
 the floor; 
 
 If he pursue it, here and there it 
 slides, 
 
 He would collect it, but it more di- 
 vides; 
 
CRABBE. 
 
 165 
 
 This part and this he stops, but still 
 
 in vain, 
 It slips aside, and breaks in parts 
 
 again ; 
 Till, after time and pains, and care 
 
 and cost, 
 He finds his labor and his object lost. 
 
 [From The Gentleman Farmer.'] 
 AGAINST RASH OPINIONS. 
 
 When men in health against phy- 
 sicians rail, 
 They should consider that their 
 
 nerves may fail, 
 AVho calls a lawyer rogue, may find, 
 
 too late. 
 On one of these depends his whole 
 
 estate : 
 Nay, when the world can nothing 
 
 more produce. 
 The priest, the insulted priest, may 
 
 have his use ; 
 Ease, health, and comfort lift a man 
 
 so high, 
 These powers are dwarfs that he can 
 
 scarcely spy : 
 Pain, sickness, languor, keep a man 
 
 so low, 
 That these neglected dwarfs to giants 
 
 grow : 
 Happy is he who through the medium 
 
 sees 
 Of clear good sense. 
 
 [From The Parish Register.] 
 THE AlFFUL VACANCY. 
 
 Arrived at home, how then they 
 
 gazed around, 
 In every place, — where she — no 
 
 more \\as found ; — 
 The seat at table she was wont to fill : 
 The fireside chair, still set, but vacant 
 
 still: 
 The garden-walks, a labor all her own : 
 The latticed bower, with trailing 
 
 shrubs o'ergrown; 
 
 The Sunday pew she filled with all 
 
 her race, — 
 Each place of hers was now a sacred 
 
 place. 
 That, while it called up sorrows in 
 
 the eyes. 
 Pierced the full heart and forced them 
 
 still to rise. 
 O sacred Sorrow! by whom souls 
 
 are tried. 
 Sent not to punish mortals, but to 
 
 guide ; 
 If thou art mine, (and who shall 
 
 proudly dare 
 To tell his Maker he has had his 
 
 share ?) 
 Still let me feel for what thy pangs 
 
 Avere sent, 
 And be my guide and not my punish- 
 ment! 
 
 [From The Dumb Orators.] 
 MAN'S DISLIKE TO BE LED. 
 
 Man will not follow where a rule is 
 
 shown. 
 But loves to take a method of his 
 
 own ; 
 Explain the way with all your care 
 
 and skill. 
 This will he quit, if but to prove he 
 
 will. 
 
 [From The Villag,'.] 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO THE WHIMSI- 
 CAL. 
 
 Say, ye opprest by some fantastic 
 woes, 
 
 Some jarring nerve that baffles your 
 repose ; 
 
 Who press the downy couch while 
 slaves advance 
 
 AVith timid eye to read the distant 
 glance; 
 
 Who with sad prayers the weary doc- 
 tor tease. 
 
 To name the nameless ever-new 
 disease ; 
 
166 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 Who with mock patience dire com- 
 plaints endure, 
 
 Which real pain, and that alone can 
 cure ; 
 
 How would ye bear in real pain to lie, 
 
 Despised, neglected, left alone to die ? 
 
 How would ye bear to draw yoiu- 
 latest breath, 
 
 Where all that's wretched paves the 
 way for death ? 
 
 [From Prisons.] 
 
 THE CONDEMNED ; FflS DUE AM 
 AND ITS AWAKENING. 
 
 Stili- I behold him, every thought 
 
 employed 
 On one dire view! — all others are 
 
 destroyed; 
 This makes his features ghastly, gives 
 
 the tone 
 Of bis few words resemblance to a 
 
 groan ; 
 He takes his tasteless food, and when 
 
 't is done. 
 Counts up his meals, now lessened 
 
 by that one; 
 For expectation is on time intent, 
 AVhether he brings us joy or punish- 
 ment. 
 Yes! e'en In sleep the impressions 
 
 all remain, 
 He hears the sentence and he feels 
 
 the chain ; 
 He sees the judge and jury, when he 
 
 shakes. 
 And loudly cries, "Not guilty," and 
 
 awakes ; 
 Then chilling tremblings o'er his 
 
 body creep. 
 Till worn-out nature is compelled to 
 
 sleep. 
 Now conies the dream again: it 
 
 shows each scene. 
 With each small circumstance that 
 
 comes between — 
 The call to suffering and the very 
 
 deed — 
 There crowds go with him, follow, 
 
 and precede ; 
 Some heartless shout, some pity, all 
 
 condemn. 
 
 While he in fancied envy looks at 
 them : 
 
 He seems the place for that sad act to 
 see. 
 
 And dreams the very thirst which 
 then Mill be: 
 
 A priest attends — it seems, the one 
 he knew 
 
 In his best days, beneath whose care 
 he grew. 
 At this his terrors take a sudden 
 flight. 
 
 He sees his native village with de- 
 light: 
 
 The house, the chamber, where he 
 once arrayed 
 
 His youthful person; where he knelt 
 and prayed; 
 
 Then too the comforts be enjoyed at 
 home. 
 
 The days of joy : the joys themselves 
 are come ; — 
 
 The hours of innocence; — the timid 
 look 
 
 Of his loved maid, when first her 
 hand he took, 
 
 And told his hope; her trembling 
 joy appears. 
 
 Her forced reserve, and his retreat- 
 ing fears. 
 All now is present; — 'tis a mo- 
 ment's gleam 
 
 Of former sunshine — stay, delightful 
 dream ! 
 
 Let him within his pleasant garden 
 walk. 
 
 Give him her arm; of blessings let 
 them talk. 
 Yes! all are with him uom', and all 
 the while 
 
 Life's early prospects and his Fan- 
 ny's smile: 
 
 Then come his sister, and his village- 
 friend. 
 
 And he will now the sweetest mo- 
 ments spend 
 
 Life has to yield ; — No ! never will he 
 find 
 
 Again on earth such pleasures in his 
 mind : 
 
 He goes through shrubby walks these 
 friends among. 
 
 Love in their looks and honor on 
 their tongue : 
 
CRABBE. 
 
 167 
 
 Nay, there's a chann beyond what 
 
 nature shows. 
 The bloom is softer and more sweetly 
 
 glows ; — 
 Pierced by no crime, and urged by 
 
 no desire 
 For more than true and honest hearts 
 
 require, 
 They feel the calm delight, and thus 
 
 proceed, 
 Through the green lane, — then lin- 
 ger in the mead, — 
 Stray o'er the heath in ail its purple 
 
 bloom, — 
 And pluck the blossoms where the 
 
 wild bees hum ; 
 Then through the broomy bound with 
 
 ease they pass. 
 And press the sandy sheep walk's 
 
 slender grass 
 Where dwarfish flowers among the 
 
 gorse are spread. 
 And the lamb browses by the linnet's 
 
 bed; 
 Then 'cross the bounding brook they 
 
 make their way 
 O'er its rough bridge and there be- 
 hold the bay ! — 
 The ocean smiling to the fervid 
 
 sun — 
 The waves that faintly fall and slowly 
 
 run — 
 The ships at distance and the boats 
 
 at hand ; 
 And now they walk upon the sea- 
 side sand. 
 Counting the number and what kind 
 
 they be, 
 Ships softly sinking in the sleepy sea: 
 Now arm in arm, now parted, they 
 
 behold 
 The glittering waters on the shingles 
 
 rolled : 
 The timid girls, half dreading their 
 
 design, 
 Dip the small foot in the retarded 
 
 brine. 
 And search for crimson weeds, which 
 
 spreading flow. 
 Or lie like pictures on the sand below: 
 With all those bright red pebbles, 
 
 that the sun 
 Through the small waves so softly 
 
 shines upon ; 
 
 And those live lucid jellies which the 
 
 eye 
 Delights to trace as they swim glit- 
 tering by : 
 Pearl-shells and rubied star-fish they 
 
 admire, 
 And will arrange above the parlor 
 
 fire, — 
 Tokens of bliss! — " Oh! horrible! a 
 
 wave 
 Roars as it rises — save me, Edward I 
 
 save!" 
 She cries : — Alas ! the watchman on 
 
 his Avay 
 Calls, and lets in — truth, terror, and 
 
 the day ! 
 
 [From The Lover's Journey.] 
 
 EXTERNAL IMPRESSIONS DEPEN- 
 DENT ON THE SOUL'S MOODS. 
 
 It is the Soul that sees: the out- 
 ward eyes 
 
 Present the object, but the Mind de- 
 scries ; 
 
 And thence delight, disgust, or cool 
 indifference rise: 
 
 When minds are joyful, then we look 
 around. 
 
 And what is seen is all on fairy 
 ground ; 
 
 Again they sicken, and on every view 
 
 Cast their own dull and melancholy 
 hue ; 
 
 Or, if absorbed by their peculiar cares, 
 
 The vacant eye on viewless matter 
 glares. 
 
 Our feelings still upon our views at- 
 tend, 
 
 And their own natures to the objects 
 lend ; [sure. 
 
 Sorrow and joy are in their influence 
 
 Long as the passion reigns th' effects 
 endure : 
 
 But Love in minds his various changes 
 makes, 
 
 And clothes each object with the 
 change he takes ; 
 
 His light and shade on every view 
 he throws. 
 
 And on each object, what he feels, 
 bestows. 
 
168 
 
 CRABBE. 
 
 [From The Parting Hour.) 
 LIFE. 
 
 Minutely trace man's life: year 
 
 after year, 
 Through all his days let all his deeds 
 
 appear, 
 And then, though some may in that 
 
 life be strange, 
 Yet there appears no vast nor sudden 
 
 change: 
 The links that bind those various 
 
 deeds are seen. 
 And no mysterious void is left be- 
 tween. 
 But let these binding links be all 
 
 destroyed, 
 All that through years he suffered or 
 
 enjoyed : 
 Let that vast gap be made, and then 
 
 behold — 
 This was the youth, and he is thus 
 
 when old ; 
 Then we at once the work of time 
 
 survey. 
 And in an instant see a life's decay; 
 Pain mixed with pity in our bosoms 
 
 rise, 
 And sorrow takes new sadness from 
 
 surprise. 
 
 [From The Parting Hour.} 
 FRIENDSHIP IN AGE AND SORRO W. 
 
 Beneath yon tree, observe an an- 
 cient pair — 
 
 A sleeping man; a woman in her 
 chaii'. 
 
 Watching his looks with kind and 
 pensive air; 
 
 Nor wife, nor sister she, nor is the 
 name 
 
 Xor kindred of this friendly pair the 
 same ; 
 
 Yet so allied are they, that few can 
 feel 
 
 Her constant, warm, unwearied, anx- 
 ious zeal ; 
 
 Their years and woes, although they 
 long have loved. 
 
 Keep their good name and conduct 
 unreproved ; 
 
 Thus life's small comforts they to- 
 gether share, 
 
 And while life lingers, for the grave 
 prepai-e, 
 No other subjects on their spirits 
 press. 
 
 Nor gain such Interest as the past dis- 
 tress ; 
 
 Grievous events, that from the mem- 
 ory drive 
 
 Life's common cares, and those alone 
 survive. 
 
 Mix Avith each thought, in every ac- 
 tion share, 
 
 Darken each dream, and blend with 
 every prayer. 
 
 [From The Library.'] 
 CONTIiO VERSIALIS TS. 
 
 Against her foes Religion well de- 
 fends 
 Her sacred truths, but often fears her 
 
 friends ; 
 If learned, their pride, if weak, their 
 
 zeal she dreads. 
 And their hearts' weakness who have 
 
 soimdest heads : 
 But most she fears the controversial 
 
 pen, 
 The holy strife of disputatious men ; 
 Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page 
 
 explore, 
 Only to tight against its precepts 
 
 more. 
 
 [From The Librarij.] 
 TO CRITICS. 
 
 Foes to our race! if ever ye have 
 known 
 
 A father's fears for offspring of your 
 own ; 
 
 If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line. 
 
 Ye thought the sudden sentiment di- 
 vine. 
 
 Then paused and doubted, and then 
 tired of doubt. 
 
 With rage as sudden dashed the stanza 
 out ; — 
 
CRABBE. 
 
 169 
 
 If, after fearing much and pausing 
 long. 
 
 Ye ventured on the world yoiu' la- 
 bored song, 
 
 And from the crusty critics of those 
 days 
 
 Implored the feeble tribute of their 
 praise. 
 
 Remember now the fears that moved 
 you then, 
 
 And, spite of truth, let mercy guide 
 your pen. 
 
 [From The Library. "l 
 PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 How vice and virtue in the soul 
 
 contend ; 
 How widely differ, yet how nearly 
 
 blend ; 
 What various passions war on either 
 
 part, 
 And now confirm, now melt the 
 
 yielding heart: 
 How Fancy loves around the world 
 
 to stray. 
 While Judgment slowly picks his 
 
 sober way; 
 The stores of memory, and 'the 
 
 flights sublime 
 Of genius bound by neither space nor 
 
 time; — 
 All these divine Philosophy explores. 
 Till , lost in awe, she wonders and 
 
 adores. 
 
 [From The Library.] 
 THE UNIVERSAL LOT. 
 
 Care lives with all; no rules, no 
 
 preceiJts save 
 The wise from woe, no fortitude the 
 
 bra\e ; 
 Grief is to man as certain as the 
 
 grave : 
 Tempests and storms in life's whole 
 
 progress rise, 
 
 And hope shines dimly through o'er- 
 
 clouded skies; 
 Some drops of comfort on the favored 
 
 fall, 
 But showers of sorrow are the lot of 
 
 all : 
 Partial to talents, then, shall Heaven 
 
 withdraw 
 Th' afflicting rod, or break the general 
 
 law ? 
 Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier 
 
 views, 
 Life's little cares and little pains re- 
 fuse ? 
 Shall he not rather feel a double share 
 Of mortal woe, when doubly armed 
 
 to bear ? 
 
 [From The Library.] 
 
 UNION OF FAITH AND REASON 
 NECESSAR Y. 
 
 When first Religion came to bless 
 the land. 
 
 Her friends were then a firm believ- 
 ing band, 
 
 To doubt was then to plunge in guilt 
 extreme. 
 
 And all was gospel that a monk could 
 dream ; 
 
 Insulted Reason fled the grovelling 
 soul, 
 
 For Fear to guide, and visions to con- 
 trol ; 
 
 But now, when Reason has assumed 
 her throne, 
 
 She, in lier turn, demands to reign 
 alone; 
 
 Rejecting all that lies beyond her 
 view. 
 
 And, being judge, will be a witness 
 too: 
 
 Insulted Faith then leaves the doubt- 
 ful mind, 
 
 To seek the truth, without a power to 
 find: 
 
 Ah! when will both in friendly beams 
 unite. 
 
 And pour on erring man resistless 
 liiiht ? 
 
170 
 
 CRAIK. 
 
 [From The Library.] 
 
 They soothe the grieved, the stub- 
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 born they chastise, 
 Fools they admonish, and confirm 
 
 
 the wise; 
 
 But what strange art, what magic 
 can dispose 
 The troubled mind to change its na- 
 
 Their aid they yield to all ; they never 
 
 shun 
 The man of sorrow, nor the wretch 
 
 tive woes ? 
 
 undone ; 
 
 Or lead us willing from ourselves, to 
 
 Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the 
 
 see 
 Others more wretched, more undone 
 
 proud, 
 They fly not sullen from the suppli- 
 
 than we ? 
 
 ant crowd ; 
 
 This BOOKS can do; — nor this alone ; 
 
 Nor tell to various people various 
 
 they give 
 New views to life, and teach us how 
 to live; 
 
 things. 
 But show to subjects what they show 
 to kings. 
 
 Dinah Mulock Craik. 
 
 GEE EX THINGS GROWING. 
 
 Oh, the green things growing, the 
 
 green things growing, 
 The faint sweet smell of the green 
 
 things growing! 
 I should like to live, whether I smile 
 
 or grieve. 
 Just to watcli the happy life of my 
 
 green things growing. 
 
 Oil, the fluttering and the pattering 
 
 of those green things growing! 
 How they talk each to each, when 
 
 none of us are knowing; 
 In the wonderful white of the weird 
 
 moonlight 
 Or the dim dreamy dawn when the 
 
 cocks are crowing. 
 
 I love, I love them so, — my green 
 things growing! 
 
 And I think that they love me, with- 
 out false showing; 
 
 For by many a tender touch, they 
 comfort me so mucli. 
 
 With the soft mute comfort of green 
 things growing. 
 
 And in the rich store of their blos- 
 soms glowing 
 
 Ten for one 1 take they're on me be- 
 stowing: 
 
 Oh, I should like to see, if God's will 
 it may be. 
 
 Many, many a sunmier of my green 
 things growing! 
 
 But if I must be gathered for the an- 
 gels' sowing. 
 
 Sleep out of sight awhile, like the 
 green things growing. 
 
 Though dust to dust return, I think 
 I'll scarcely mourn, 
 
 If I may change into green things 
 growing. 
 
 NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 
 
 "Two hands upon the breast. 
 
 And labor's done; 
 Two pale feet crossed in rest, — 
 The race is won; 
 Two eyes with coin-weights shut, 
 
 And all tears cease ; 
 
PLIGHTED. 
 
 Page i/i. 
 
CRAIK. 
 
 171 
 
 Two lips where grief is mute, 
 Anger at peace; " 
 So pray we oftentimes, mourning 
 
 our lot 
 God in his kindness answereth not. 
 
 " Two hands to work addrest 
 
 Aye for His praise; 
 Two feet that never rest 
 
 Walking His ways ; 
 Two eyes that look above 
 Through all their tears; 
 Two lips still breathing love. 
 Not wrath, nor fears; " 
 So pray we afterwards, low on oiu' 
 
 knees ; 
 Pardon those erring prayers! Father, 
 hear these! 
 
 PLIGHTED. 
 
 Mine to the core of the heart, my 
 
 beauty ! 
 Mine, all mine, and for love, not 
 
 duty : 
 Love given willingly, full and free, 
 Love for love's sake, — as mine to 
 
 thee. 
 Duty's a slave that keeps the keys. 
 But Love, the master, goes in and out 
 Of his goodly chambers with song 
 
 and shout. 
 Just as he please, — just as he 
 
 please. 
 
 Mine, from the dear head's crown, 
 brown-golden. 
 
 To the silken foot that's scarce be- 
 holden ; 
 
 Give to a few friends hand or smile, 
 
 Like a generous lady, now and 
 awhile. 
 But the sanctuary heart, that none 
 dare win. 
 
 Keep holiest of holiest evermore; 
 
 The crowd in the aisles may watch 
 the door. 
 The high-priest only enters in. 
 
 Mine, my own, without doubts or 
 
 terrors, 
 With all thy goodnesses, all thy 
 
 errors. 
 
 ITnto me and to me alone revealed, 
 
 "A spring shut up, a fountain 
 sealed." 
 Many may praise thee, — praise 
 mine as thine. 
 
 Many may love thee, — I'll love them 
 too; 
 
 But thy heart of hearts, pure, faith- 
 ful, and true. 
 Must be mine, mine wholly, and 
 only mine. 
 
 Mine!— God, I thank Thee that 
 
 Thou hast given 
 Something all mine on this side 
 
 heaven : 
 Something as much myself to be 
 As this my soul which I lift to Thee: 
 Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone ; 
 Life of my life, whom Thou dost 
 
 make 
 Two to the world for the world's 
 
 work's sake, — 
 But each unto each, as in Thy 
 
 sight, one. 
 
 PHILIP, MY KING. 
 
 Look at me with thy large brown 
 eyes, 
 
 Philip, my king. 
 Round whom the enshadowing pur- 
 ple lies 
 Of babyhood's royal dignities; 
 Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 
 With love's invisible sceptre laden 
 I am thine Esther to conmiand 
 Till thou shalt find a queen-hand- 
 maiden, 
 Philip, my king. 
 
 Oh, the day when thou goest a-woo- 
 
 ing, 
 Philip, my king! 
 When those beautiful lips are suing. 
 And some gentle heart's bars undoing 
 Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and 
 
 there 
 Sittest love-glorified. Pule kindly, 
 Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair, 
 For we that love, ah! we love so 
 
 blindly, 
 
 Philip, my king. 
 
172 
 
 CRAIK. 
 
 Up from thy sweet mouth, — up to 
 
 thy brow, 
 
 Philip, my king! 
 The spirit that there lies sleeping 
 
 now 
 May rise like a giant and make men 
 
 bow 
 As to one heaven-chosen amongst 
 
 his peers: 
 My Saul, than thy brethren taller 
 
 and fairer 
 Let me behold thee in future years; 
 Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
 PhiliiJ, my king. 
 
 — A wreath not of gold, but palm. 
 
 One day, 
 Philip, my king, 
 Thou too must tread, as we trod, a 
 
 way 
 Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : 
 Rebels within thee and foes without. 
 Will snatcli at thy crown. But march 
 
 on, glorious. 
 Martyr, yet monarch; till angels 
 
 shout [victorious, 
 
 As thou sit'st at the feet of God 
 "Philip, the king!" 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Could you come back to me, Douglas, 
 Douglas, 
 In the old likeness that I knew, 
 I would be so faithful, so loving, 
 Douglas, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Never a scornful word should grieve 
 you, 
 I'd smile on you sweet as the angels 
 do; — 
 Sweet as your smile on me shone 
 ever. 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Oh, to call back the days that are not ! 
 
 My eyes were blinded, your words 
 
 were few, 
 
 Do you know the truth now up in 
 
 heaven, 
 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? 
 
 I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 
 
 Not half worthy the like of you: 
 Now all men beside seem to me like 
 shadows, — 
 I love you, Douglas, tender and 
 true. 
 
 Stretch out your hand to me, Doug- 
 las, Douglas, 
 Drop forgiveness from heaven like 
 dew ; 
 As I lay my heart on your dead 
 heart, Douglas, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 RESIGNING. 
 
 CuiLDiiEX, that lay their pretty gar- 
 lands by 
 
 So piteously, yet with a humble 
 mind; 
 
 Sailors, who, when their ship rocks 
 in the wind, 
 
 Cast out her freight with half-averted 
 eye, 
 
 Riches for life exchanging solemnly, 
 
 Lest they should never gain the 
 wished-f or shore ; — 
 
 Thus we, O Father, standing Thee 
 before, 
 
 Do lay down at Thy feet without a 
 sigh 
 
 Each after each our precious things 
 and rare, 
 
 Our dear heart-jewels and oiu- gar- 
 lands fair. 
 
 Perhaps Thou knewest that the flow- 
 ers would die, 
 
 And the long-voyaged hoards be 
 fomid but dust : 
 
 So took'st tlieni, while imchanged. 
 To Thee Me trust 
 
 For incorruptible treasure : Thou art 
 just. 
 
 MY LITTLE BOY THAT DIED. 
 
 Look at his pretty face for just one 
 minutt;! 
 His braided frock and dainty but- 
 toned shoes ; 
 
GRANGH. 
 
 173 
 
 His firm-shut hand, the favorite 
 plaything in it, — 
 Then tell me, mothers, was't not 
 hard to lose 
 And miss him from my side,— 
 My little boy that died ? 
 
 How many another boy, as dear and 
 charming, [delight, 
 
 His father's hope, his mother's one 
 Slips through strange sicknesses, all 
 fear disarming, 
 And lives a long, long life in par- 
 ents' sight! 
 Mine was so short a pride ! 
 And then, — my poor boy died. 
 
 I see him rocking on his wooden 
 
 charger ; 
 
 I hear him pattering through the 
 
 house all day ; 
 
 I watch his great blue eyes grow 
 
 large and larger, jor gay, 
 
 Listening to stories, whether grave 
 
 Told at the bright fireside. 
 So dark now, since he died. 
 
 But yet I often think my boy is liv- 
 ing, 
 As living as my other children are. 
 When good-night kisses I all round 
 am giving, 
 I keep one for him, though he is 
 so far. 
 Can a mere grave divide 
 Me from him,— though he died ? 
 
 So, while I come and plant it o'er 
 with daisies 
 (Nothing but childish daisies all 
 year round). 
 Continually God's hand the curtain 
 raises. 
 And I can hear his merry voice's 
 sound, 
 And feel him at my side, — 
 My little boy that died. 
 
 Christopher Pearse Cranch. 
 
 A THRUSH IN A GILDED CAGE. 
 
 Was this the singer I had heard so 
 long. 
 But never till this evening, face to 
 face? 
 And were they his, those tones so 
 unlike song. 
 Those words conventional and 
 commonplace ? 
 
 Those echoes of the usual social chat 
 That filled with noise confused the 
 crowded hall; 
 That smiling face, black coat, and 
 white cravat; 
 Those fashionable manners,— was 
 this all ? 
 
 He glanced at freed men, operas, pol- 
 itics. 
 And other common topics of the 
 day; 
 
 But not one brilliant image did he 
 mix 
 With all the prosy things he had to 
 say. 
 
 At least 1 hoped that one I long had 
 known. 
 In the inspired books that built his 
 fame, 
 Would breathe some word, some 
 sympathetic tone. 
 Fresh" from the ideal region whence 
 he came. 
 
 And so I leave the well-dressed, buzz- 
 ing crowd. 
 And vent my spleen alone here by 
 my fire; 
 Mourning the fading of my golden 
 cloud. 
 The disappointment of my life s 
 desire. 
 
Simple enthusiast! why do you re- 
 quire 
 A budding rose for every thorny 
 stalk '? 
 Why must we poets always bear the 
 lyre 
 And sino;, when fashion forces us 
 to talk ? 
 
 Only at moments comes the muse's 
 light. 
 Alone, like shy wood-thrushes, war- 
 ble we. 
 Catch us in traps like this dull crowd 
 to-night, 
 We are but plain, brown -feathered 
 birds, you see! 
 
 COMPENSA TION. 
 
 Tears wash away the atoms in the 
 eye 
 That smarted for a day ; 
 Rain-clouds that spoiled the splen- 
 dors of the sky 
 The fields with flowers array. 
 
 No chamber of pain but has some 
 hidden door 
 
 That promises release ; [store 
 
 No solitude so drear but yields its 
 
 Of thought and inward peace. 
 
 No night so wild but brings the con- 
 stant sun 
 With love and power untold ; 
 No time so dark but through its woof 
 there run 
 Some blessed threads of gold. 
 
 And through the long and storm-tost 
 centuries burn 
 In changing calm and strife 
 The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er 
 we turn, — 
 The unquenched lamps of life. 
 
 O Love supreme! O Providence di- 
 vine! 
 What self-adjusting springs 
 Of law and life, what even scales, 
 are thine. 
 What sure-returning wings 
 
 Of hopes and joys that flit like birds 
 away, 
 When chilling autumn blows. 
 But come again, long ere the buds of 
 May 
 Their rosy lips unclose! 
 
 What wondrous play of mood and 
 accident 
 
 Through shifting days and years ; 
 What fresh returns of vigor overspent 
 
 In feverish dreams and fears! 
 
 AMiat wholesome air of conscience 
 and of thought 
 When doubts and forms oppress ; 
 What vistas opening to the gates we 
 sought 
 Beyond the wilderness; 
 
 Beyond the narrow cells where self- 
 involved. 
 Like chrysalids, Ave wait 
 The unknown births, the mysteries 
 unsolved 
 Of death and change and fate ! 
 
 O Light divine! we need no fuller 
 test 
 That all is ordered well; 
 We know enough to trust that all is 
 best 
 Where Love and Wisdom dwell. 
 
 MEMORIAL HALL. 
 
 Amid the elms that interlace 
 
 Round Harvard's grounds their 
 branches tall, 
 We greet no walls of statelier grace 
 Than thine, our proud Memorial 
 Hall ! 
 
 Through arching boughs and roofs of 
 green 
 Whose dappled lights and shadows 
 lie 
 Along the turf and road, is seen 
 Thy noble form against the sky. 
 
And miles away, on fields and 
 streams, 
 Or M'here the woods the hilltop 
 crown. 
 The monumental temple gleams, 
 A landmark to each neighboring 
 town. 
 
 Nor this alone ; New England knows 
 A deeper meaning in the pride 
 
 Whose stately architecture shows 
 How Harvard's children fought 
 and died. 
 
 Therefore this hallowed pile recalls 
 The heroes, young and true and 
 brave. 
 Who gave their memories to these 
 walls. 
 Their lives to fill the soldier's 
 grave. 
 
 The farmer, as he drives his team 
 To market in the morn, afar 
 
 Beholds the golden sunrise gleam 
 Upon thee, like a glistening star. 
 
 And gazing, he remembers well 
 Why stands yon tower so fair and 
 tall. 
 Ills sons perhaps in battle fell ; 
 For him, too, shines Memorial 
 Hall. 
 
 And sometimes as the student glides 
 Along the winding Charles, and sees 
 
 Across the flats thy glowing sides 
 Above the elms and willow-trees. 
 
 Upon his oar he'll turn and pause, 
 Remembering the heroic aims 
 
 Of those who linked their country's 
 cause 
 In deathless glory with their names. 
 
 And as against the moonlit sky 
 The shadowy mass looms overhead, 
 
 Well may we linger with a sigh 
 Beneath the tablets of the dead. 
 
 The snow-drifts on thy roof shall 
 wreathe 
 Their crowns of virgin white for 
 them ; 
 
 The whispering winds of summer 
 breathe 
 At morn and eve their requiem. 
 
 For them the Cambridge bells shall 
 chime 
 
 Across the noises of the town ; 
 The cannon's peal recall their time 
 
 Of stern resolve and brief renown. 
 
 Concord and Lexington shall still. 
 Like deep to deep, to Harvard call; 
 
 The tall gray shaft on Bunker Hill 
 Speak greetings to Memorial Hall. 
 
 Oh, never may the land forget 
 Her loyal sons who died that we 
 
 Might live, remembering still our 
 debt. 
 The costly price of Liberty ! 
 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 Thought is deeper than all speech, 
 Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
 Souls to souls can never teach 
 ^\llat nnto themselves was taught. 
 
 We are spirits clad in veils; 
 Man by man was never seen; 
 All our deep communing fails 
 To remove the shadowy screen. 
 
 Heart to heart was never known ; 
 Mind with mind did never meet; 
 We are columns left alone 
 Of a temple once complete. 
 
 Like the stars that gem the sky, 
 Far apart though seeming near, 
 In our light we scattered lie; 
 All is thus but starlight here. 
 
 What is social company 
 lint a babbling summer stream ? 
 What oiu" wise philosophy 
 But the glancing of a dream '? 
 
 Only when the svin of love 
 Melts the scattered stars of thought. 
 Only when we live above 
 What the dim-eyed world hath 
 taught ; 
 
176 
 
 CRANCH. 
 
 Only when our souls are fed 
 
 By the fount which gave them birth, 
 
 And by inspiration led 
 
 Which they never drew from earth, 
 
 We, like parted drops of rain, 
 Swelling till they meet and run, 
 Shall be all absorbed again. 
 Melting, flowing into one. 
 
 / lyf THEE, AND THOU IN ME. 
 
 I AM but clay in thy hands, but Thou 
 art the all-loving artist. 
 Passive I lie in thy sight, yet in my 
 selfhood 1 strive 
 So to embody the life and the love 
 thou ever impartest, 
 That in my sphere of the finite, I 
 may be truly alive. 
 
 Knowing thou needest this form, as 
 I thy divine inspiration. 
 Knowing thou shapest the clay with 
 a vision and purpose divine, 
 So would I answer each touch of thy 
 hand in its loving creation. 
 That in my conscious life thy pow- 
 er and beauty may shine, 
 
 Reflecting the noble intent thou hast 
 in forming thy creatures ; 
 Waking from sense into life of the 
 soul, and the image of thee; 
 Working with thee in thy work to 
 model humanity's features 
 Into the likeness of God, myself 
 from myself I Mould free. 
 
 One with all human existence, no 
 one above or below me ; 
 Lit by thy wisdom and love, as 
 roses are steeped in the morn; 
 Growing from clay to a statue, from 
 statue to flesh, till thou know 
 me 
 Wrought into manhood celestial, 
 and in thine image re-born. 
 
 So in thy love will I trust, bringing 
 me sooner or later 
 Past the dark screen that divides 
 these shows of the finite from 
 thee. 
 
 Thine, thine only, this warm, dear 
 life. O loving Creator ! 
 Thine the invisible future, born of 
 the present, must be. 
 
 SOFT, BROWN, SMILING EYES. 
 
 Soft, brown, smiling eyes. 
 
 Looking back through years, 
 Smiling through the mist of time. 
 
 Filling mine with tears; 
 On this sunny morn, 
 
 While the grape-blooms swing 
 In the scented air of June, — 
 
 Why these memories bring ? 
 
 Silky rippling curls. 
 
 Tresses long ago 
 Laid beneath the shaded sod 
 
 Where the violets blow; 
 Why across the blue 
 
 Of the peerless day 
 Do ye droop to meet my own. 
 
 Now all turned to gray ? 
 
 Voice whose tender tones 
 
 Break in sudden mirth. 
 Heard far back in boyhood's spring, 
 
 Silent now on earth ; 
 Why so sweet and clear. 
 
 While the bird and bee 
 Fill the balmy summer air, 
 
 Come your tones to me ? 
 
 Sweet, ah, sweeter far 
 
 Than yon thrush's trill. 
 Sadder, sweeter than the wind, 
 
 Woods, or murmuring rill. 
 Spirit words and songs 
 
 O' er my senses creep. 
 Do I breathe the air of dreams ? 
 
 Do I wake or sleep '? 
 
 WHY? 
 
 Why was I born, and wliere was I 
 Before this living mystery 
 That weds the body to the soul ? 
 What are the laws by whose control 
 
CRANCH. 
 
 17' 
 
 I live and feel and think and know ? 
 What the allegiance that I owe 
 To tides beyond all time and space ? 
 AVhat form of faith must I embrace ? 
 Why thwarted, starved, and over- 
 borne 
 By fate. — an exile, driven forlorn 
 By titful winds, where each event 
 Seems but the whirl of accident'? 
 Why feel our wings so incomplete, 
 Or, flying, but a plumed deceit, 
 Renewing all our lives to us 
 The fable old of Icarus ? 
 
 Tell me the meaning of the breath 
 That whispers from the house of 
 
 death. 
 That chills thought's metaphysic 
 
 strife. 
 That dims the dream of After-life. 
 Why, if we lived not ere our birth, 
 Hope for a state beyond this earth ? 
 Tell me the secret of the hope 
 That gathers, as \\e upwards ope 
 The skylights of the prisoned soul 
 Unto the perfect and the whole; 
 Yet why the loveliest things of earth 
 Mock in their death their glorious 
 
 birth. 
 Why, when the scarlet sunset floods 
 The west beyond the hills and woods. 
 Or June with roses crowds my porch. 
 Or northern lights with crimson 
 
 torch 
 Illume the snow and veil the stars 
 With streaming bands and wavering 
 
 bars. 
 Or music's sensuous, soul-like wine 
 Intoxicates with trance divine. — 
 Why then must sadness like a thief 
 Steal my aromas of belief, 
 And like a cloud that shuts the day 
 At sunrise, turn my gold to gray ? 
 
 Tell me why instincts meant for good 
 Turn to a madness of the blood ; 
 And, baffling all our morals nice, 
 Nature seems nearly one with vice; 
 What sin and misery mean, if blent 
 With good in one ilivine intent. 
 Why from such source must evil 
 
 spring. 
 And finite still mean suffering '/ 
 
 Look on the millions born to blight; 
 The souls that pine for warmth and 
 
 light: 
 The crushed and stifled swarms that 
 
 pack 
 The fold streets and the alleys black, 
 The miserable lives that cra\\l 
 Outside the grim partition wall 
 'Twixt rich and poor, 'twixt foul and 
 
 fair, 
 'Twixt vaulting hope and lame de- 
 spair. 
 On that wall's sunny side, within, 
 Hang ripening fruits and tendrils 
 
 green. 
 O'er garden-beds of bloom and spice. 
 And perfume as of paradise. 
 There happy children run and talk 
 Along the shade-flecked gravel-walk. 
 And lovers sit in rosy bowers. 
 And music overflows the hours, 
 x\.nd wealth and health and mirth 
 
 and books 
 Make pictures in Arcadian nooks. 
 But on that wall's grim outer stones 
 The fierce north-wind of winter 
 
 groans ; 
 Through blinding dust, o'er bleak 
 
 highway, 
 The slant sun's melancholy ray 
 Sees stagnant pool and poisonous 
 
 weed. 
 The hearts that faint, the feet that 
 
 bleed. 
 The grovelling aim, the flagging 
 
 faith. 
 The starving curse, the drowning 
 
 death ! 
 
 O wise philosopher! you soothe 
 Our troubles with a touch too 
 
 smooth. 
 Too plausibly your reasonings come. 
 They will not guide me to my home; 
 They lead me on a little way 
 Through meadows, groves, and gar- 
 dens gay. 
 Until a wall shuts out my day, — 
 A screen whose top is hid in clouds. 
 Whose base is deep on dead men's 
 
 shrouds. 
 Could I dive under pain and death. 
 Or mount and breathe the who!? 
 heaven's breath. 
 
178 
 
 CROLY. 
 
 I might begin to comprehend 
 How the Beginning joins the End. 
 
 We agonize in doubt, perplexed 
 O'er fate, free-will, and Bible-text. 
 In vain. The spirit finds no vent 
 From out the imprisoning tempera- 
 ment. 
 
 Therefore I bow my spirit to the 
 
 Power 
 That underflows and fills my little 
 
 hour. 
 I feel the eternal symphony afloat, 
 In Mhich I am a breath, a passing 
 
 note. 
 I may be but a dull and jarring nerve 
 In the great body, yet some end I 
 
 serve. 
 
 Yea, though I dream and question 
 still the dream 
 
 Thus floating by me upon Being's 
 stream, 
 
 Some end I serve. Love reigns. I 
 cannot lose 
 
 The Primal Light, though thousand- 
 fold its hues. 
 
 I can believe that somewhere Truth 
 
 abides; 
 Not in the ebb and flow of those 
 
 small tides 
 That float the dogmas of our saints 
 
 and sects ; 
 Not in a thousand tainted dialects. 
 But in the one pure language, could 
 
 we hear. 
 That fills with love and light the ser- 
 aphs' sphere. 
 I can believe there is a Central Good, 
 That burns and shines o'er tempera- 
 ment and mood ; 
 That somewhere God will melt the 
 
 clouds away. 
 And his great purpose shine as 
 
 shines the day. 
 Then may we know M'hy now we 
 
 could not know; 
 Why the great Isis-curtain drooped 
 
 so low; 
 Why we were blindfold on a path of 
 
 light; 
 Why came wild gleams and voices 
 
 through the night; 
 Why we seemed drifting, storm-tost, 
 
 without rest. 
 And were but rocking on a mother's 
 
 breast. 
 
 George Croly. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 When eve is purpling cliff and cave. 
 Thoughts of the heart, liow soft ye 
 flow ! 
 
 Not softer on the western wave 
 The golden lines of smiset glow. 
 
 Then all, by chance or fate removed, 
 Like spirits crowd upon the eye; 
 
 The few we liked — the one we loved ! 
 And the whole heart is memory. 
 
 And life is like a fading flower, 
 Its beauty dying as we gaze; 
 
 Yet as the shadows round us lour. 
 Heaven pours above a brighter 
 blaze. 
 
 When morning sheds its gorgeous 
 
 Our hope, our heart, to earth is 
 given; 
 But dark and lonely is tlie eye 
 That tiu'ns not. at its eve, to lieaven. 
 
 CUPID GROWN CAREFUL. 
 
 There Avas once a gentle time 
 
 When the world was in its prime; 
 
 And every day was holiday, 
 
 And every month was lovely May. 
 
 Cupid then had but to go 
 
 With his purple wings and bow: 
 
CROWNE — CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 179 
 
 And in blossomed vale and grove 
 Every shepherd knelt to love. 
 Then a rosy, dimpled cheek, 
 And a blue eye, fond and meek; 
 And a ringlet-wreathen brow, 
 Like hyacinths on a bed of snow : 
 And a low voice, silver sweet, 
 From a lip without deceit: 
 Only these the hearts could move 
 Of the simple swains to love. 
 
 But that time is gone and past, 
 Can the summer always last ? 
 And the swains are wiser grown, 
 And the heart is tiu-ned to stone, 
 
 And the maiden's rose may wither; 
 Cupid's fled, no man knows whither. 
 But another Cupid's come. 
 With a brow of care and gloom: 
 Fixed upon the earthly mould, 
 Thinking of the sullen gold; 
 In his hand the bow no more. 
 At his back the household store. 
 That the bridal gold nuist buy: 
 Useless now the smile and sigh; 
 But he wears the pinion still. 
 Flying at the sight of ill. 
 
 Oh, for the old true-love time, 
 When the world was in its prime! 
 
 John Crowne. 
 
 WISHES FOR ODSCUniTY. 
 
 How miserable a thing is a great 
 
 man! 
 Take noisy vexing greatness they 
 
 that please; (ease. 
 
 Give me obscure and safe and silent 
 Acquaintance and commerce let me 
 
 have none 
 With any powerful thing but time 
 
 alone : 
 My rest let Time be fearful to offend, 
 And creep by me as by a slumbering 
 
 friend ; 
 
 Oh, wretched he who, called abroad 
 
 by power. 
 To know himself can never find an 
 
 hour! 
 Strange to himself, but to all others 
 
 knoMU, 
 Lends every one his life, but uses 
 
 none ; 
 So, ere he tasted life, to death he 
 
 goes, 
 And himself loses ere himself he 
 
 knows. 
 
 Allan Cunningham. 
 
 THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD. 
 
 Tiiou hast sworn by thy God, my 
 Jeanie, 
 By that pretty white hand o' thine, 
 Anil by a' the lowing stars in heaven, 
 
 That thou wad aye be mine; 
 And I liae sworn by my God, my 
 Jeanie, 
 And by that kind heart o' thine. 
 By a' the stars sown thick owre 
 heaven. 
 That thou shalt aye be mine. 
 
 Then foul fa' the hands that wad 
 loose sic bands, 
 An' the heart that wad part sic 
 luve ; 
 But there's nae hand can loose my 
 band. 
 But the finger o' God abuve. 
 Though the wee, wee cot maun be 
 my bield. 
 And my claithing e'er so mean, 
 I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' 
 luve. 
 Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 
 
180 
 
 CUNNINOEAM. 
 
 Her white arm wad be a pillow for me 
 
 Far saf ter than the down ; 
 And lave wad winnow owre us his 
 kind, kind wings, 
 An' sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'. 
 Come here to me, thou lass o' my 
 luve, 
 Come here, and kneel wi' me ! 
 The morn is fu' o' the presence o' 
 God. 
 An' I canna pray without thee. 
 
 The morn-wind is sweet 'mang tlie 
 beds o' new flowers, 
 The wee birds sing kindlie an" hie; 
 Our gudeman leans owre his kale- 
 yard dyke. 
 And a blitlie auld bodie is he. 
 The beuk maun l)e taen when the 
 carle conies liame. 
 Wi' the holie psalniodie; 
 And thou maun speak o" me to thy 
 God. 
 And I will speak o' thee. 
 
 SHE'S GANE TO DWELL IN 
 HE A VEX. 
 
 She's gane to dwall in heaven, my 
 lassie. 
 
 She's gane to dwall in heaven: 
 Ye" re owre pure, quo" the voice o' God, 
 
 For dwalling out o" heaven ! 
 
 O, what'll she do in heaven, my las- 
 sie ? 
 O, what'll she do in heaven ? 
 She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' an- 
 gels' sangs, 
 An' make them mair meet for 
 heaven. 
 
 She was beloved by a', my lassie, 
 
 She was beloved by a' ; 
 But an angel fell in love \\ i" her. 
 
 An' took her frae us a'. 
 
 Low there thou lies, my lassie, 
 
 Low there thou lies, 
 A bonnier form ne'er went to the 
 yird, 
 
 Nor fra it will arise! 
 
 Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, 
 
 Fu' soon I'll follow thee; 
 Thou left me naught to covet ahin' 
 
 But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 
 
 I looked on thy death-cold face, my 
 lassie, 
 
 I looked on thy death-cold face; 
 Thou seemed a lily new cut 1" the bud, 
 
 An' fading in its place. 
 
 I looked on thy death-shut eye, my 
 lassie, 
 I looked on thy death-shut eye ; 
 An' a lovelier liglit in the brow o' 
 heaven 
 Fell time shall ne'er destroy. 
 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my 
 lassie. 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 
 But gane was the holy breath o' heav- 
 " en. 
 To sing the evening psalm. 
 
 There's naught but dust now mine, 
 lassie, 
 
 There's naught but dust now mine; 
 My Saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave, 
 
 An' why should I stay behin' ? 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING 
 SEA. 
 
 A "WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast. 
 And fills the white and rustling sail. 
 
 And bends the gallant mast — 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 
 While, like the eagle free. 
 Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
 
 Old England on our lee. 
 
 " O for a soft and gentle wind ! " 
 
 I heard a fair one cry : 
 But give to me the swelling breeze. 
 
 And white waves heaving higli, — 
 The white waves heaving higli, my 
 lads. 
 
 The good ship tight and free ; 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 
 And meriy men are we. 
 
CURTIS — DANA. 
 
 181 
 
 George William Curtis. 
 
 MAJOR AND MlNOIi. 
 
 A BiiJD sang sweet and strong 
 In the top of the highest tree ; 
 
 He sang, — "1 pour out my soul in 
 song 
 For the summer that soon shall be. ' ' 
 
 But deep in the shady wood 
 Another bird sang, — "I pour 
 
 iMy soul on the solemn solitude 
 For the springs that return no 
 more." 
 
 EGYPTIAN SERENADE. 
 
 Sixfi again the.song you sung, 
 "When we were together young — 
 When there were but you and I 
 Underneath the summer sky. 
 
 Sing the song, and o'er and o'er. 
 Though 1 know that nevermore 
 AVill it seem the song you sung 
 When we were together young. 
 
 MUSIC IN THE AIR. 
 
 Oh, listen to the howling sea, 
 That beats on the remorseless shore ; 
 
 Oh, listen, for that sound shall be. 
 When our wild hearts shall beat no 
 more. 
 
 Oh, listen well, and listen long! 
 
 For, sitting folded close to me. 
 You could not hear a sweeter song 
 
 Than that hoarse murmur of the 
 sea. 
 
 Richard Henry Dana. 
 
 THE HUSBAND AND WIFE'S 
 GRA VE. 
 
 Husband and wife ! no converse now 
 ye hold. 
 
 As once ye did in your young days of 
 love. 
 
 On its alarms, its anxious hours, de- 
 lays, 
 
 Its silent meditations and glad hopes, 
 
 Its fears, impatience, quiet sympa- 
 thies; 
 
 Xor do ye speak of joy assured, and 
 bliss 
 
 Full, certain, and possessed. Domes- 
 tic cares 
 
 Call you not now together. Earnest 
 talk 
 
 On what your children may be, moves 
 you not. 
 
 Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence; 
 
 Not like to that in which ye rested 
 once 
 
 Most happy, — silence eloquent, when 
 heart 
 
 With heart held speech, and your 
 
 mysterious frames. 
 Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat, 
 Touched the soft notes of love. 
 
 A stillness deep. 
 Insensible, imheeding, folds you 
 
 round. 
 And darkness, as a stone, has sealed 
 
 you in ; 
 Away from all the living, liere ye rest. 
 In ah tlie nearness of the narrow 
 
 tomb. 
 Yet feel ye not each other's presence 
 
 now ; — 
 Dread fellowship ! — together, yet 
 
 alone. 
 
 Why is it that I linger round this 
 
 tomb? 
 What liolds it? Dust that cumbered 
 
 those I mourn. 
 They shook it off, and laid aside 
 
 earth's robes. 
 
182 
 
 DANA. 
 
 And put on those of light. They' re 
 
 gone to dwell 
 In love, — their (Jod's and angels' ! 
 
 Mutual love, 
 That bound them here, no longer 
 
 needs a speecli 
 For full communion; nor sensations, 
 
 strong, 
 Within the breast, their prison, strive 
 
 in vain 
 To be set free, and meet their kind 
 
 in joy. 
 Changed to celestials, thoughts that 
 
 rise in each 
 Cy natures new, impart themselves, 
 
 though silent. 
 Each quickening sense, each throb 
 
 of holy love. 
 Affections sanctified, and the full 
 
 glow [one. 
 
 Of being, which expand and gladden 
 By union all mysterious, thrill and 
 
 live 
 In both immortal frames; — sensa- 
 tion all. 
 And thought, pervading, mingling 
 
 sense and thought I 
 Ye paired, yet one! wrapt in a con- 
 sciousness 
 Twofold, yet single, — this is love, 
 
 this life! 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 Come, brother, turn with me from 
 
 pining thought 
 And all the inward ills that sin has 
 
 wrought; 
 Come, send abroad a love for all who 
 
 live. 
 And feel the deep content in turn 
 
 they give. 
 Kind wishes and good deeds, — they 
 
 make not poor; 
 They '11 home again, full laden, to thy 
 
 door; 
 The streams of love flow back where 
 
 they begin. 
 For springs of outward joys lie deep 
 
 within. 
 Even let them flow, and make the 
 
 places glad 
 
 Where dwell thy fellow -men. — 
 Shouldst thou be sad, 
 
 And earth seem bare, and hours, once 
 hajjpy, press 
 
 Upon thy thoughts, and make thy 
 loneliness 
 
 More lonely for the past, thou then 
 shall hear 
 
 The music of those waters running 
 near ; 
 
 And thy faint spirit drink the cooling 
 stream, 
 
 And thine eye gladden with the play- 
 ing beam 
 
 That now upon the water dances, now 
 
 Leaps up and dances in the hanging 
 bough. 
 Is it not lovely? Tell me, where 
 doth dwell 
 
 The power that wrought so beautiful 
 a spell? 
 
 In thine own bosom, brother ? Then 
 as thine 
 
 Guard with a reverent fear this power 
 divine. 
 And if, indeed, 'tis not the out- 
 ward state. 
 
 But temper of the soul by which we 
 rate 
 
 Sadness or joy, even let thy bosom 
 move 
 
 With noble thoughts and ^\ake thee 
 into love; 
 
 And let each feeling in thy breast be 
 given 
 
 An honest aim, which, sanctified by 
 Heaven, 
 
 And springing into act, new life im- 
 parts, 
 
 Till beats thy frame as with a thou- 
 sand hearts. 
 Sin clouds the mind's clear vision 
 from its birth. 
 
 Around the self-starved soul has 
 spread a dearth. 
 
 The earth is full of life; the living 
 Hand 
 
 Touched it with life ; and all its forms 
 expand 
 
 With principles of being made to suit 
 
 Man's varied powers and raise him 
 from the brute. 
 
 And shall the earth of higher ends be 
 full, — 
 
DEM ARE ST. 
 
 183 
 
 Earth which thou tread' st, — and thy 
 
 poor mind be dull ? 
 Thou talk of life, with half thy soul 
 
 asleep ? 
 Thou "living dead man," let thy 
 
 sjiirit leap 
 Forth to the day, and let the fresh 
 
 air blow 
 Through thy soul's shut-up mansion. 
 
 U'ouidst thou know 
 Something of what is life, shake off 
 
 this death; [breath 
 
 Have thy soul feel the universal 
 With which all nature's quick, and 
 
 learn to be [see; 
 
 Sharer in all that thou dost touch or 
 
 Break from thy body's grasp, thy 
 
 spirit's trance; 
 Give thy soul air, thy faculties ex- 
 panse ; 
 Love, joy, even sorrow, — yield tliy- 
 
 seif to all! 
 They make thy freedom, groveller, 
 
 not thy thrall. 
 Knock off the shackles which thy 
 
 spirit bind 
 To dust and sense, and set at large 
 
 the mind ! 
 Then move in sympathy with God's 
 
 great whole, 
 And be like man at first, a living 
 
 soul. 
 
 Mary Lee Demarest. 
 
 MY AIN COUNTREE. 
 
 I'm far frae my hame, an' I'm weary 
 
 aftenwhiles, 
 For the langed-f or hanie-bringing, an' 
 
 my Father's welcome smiles; 
 I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine 
 
 een do see 
 The shining gates o' heaven, an' mine 
 
 ain countree. 
 
 The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony- 
 
 tinted, fresh, an' gay, 
 The birdies warble blithely, for my 
 
 Father made them sae ; 
 But these sights and these soun's will 
 
 as naething be to me. 
 When I hear the angels singing in my 
 
 ain countree. 
 
 I've his gude word of promise that 
 
 some gladsome day, the King 
 To his ain royal palace his banished 
 
 hame will bring : 
 Wi' een an ^\•i' hearts runnin' owre, 
 
 we shall see 
 The King in his beauty in our ain 
 
 countree. 
 
 My sins hae been mony, an' my sor- 
 rows hae been sair, 
 
 But there they'll never vex me, nor 
 be remembered mair; 
 
 His bluid has made me white, his 
 hand shall dry mine e'e, 
 
 When he brings me hame at last, to 
 my ain countree. 
 
 Like a bairn to its mither, a wee 
 
 birdie to its nest, 
 I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my 
 
 Saviour's breast: 
 For he gathers in his bosom, witless, 
 
 worthless lambs like me. 
 An' carries them liimsel' to his ain 
 
 countree. 
 
 He's faithfu' that hath promised, 
 
 he'll surely come again, 
 He'll keep his tryst wi' me, at what 
 
 hour I dinna ken ; 
 But he bids me still to wait, and ready 
 
 aye to be 
 To gang at any moment to my ain 
 
 countree. 
 
 So I'm watching aye an' singin' o' my 
 hame as I wait. 
 
 For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this 
 side the shining gate; 
 
 God gie his grace to ilk ane wha lis- 
 tens noo to me. 
 
 That we a' may gang in gladness to 
 our ain countree. 
 
184 
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 Sir Aubrey De Vere. 
 
 MISSPENT TIME. 
 
 There is no remedy for time mis- 
 spent ; 
 
 No healing for the waste of idleness, 
 
 Whose very languor is a punish- 
 ment 
 
 Heavier than active souls can feel or 
 guess. 
 
 O hours of indolence and discontent, 
 
 Not now to be redeemed ! ye sting not 
 less 
 
 Because I know this span of life was 
 lent 
 
 For lofty duties, not for selfishness, — 
 
 Not to be whiled away in aimless 
 dreams. 
 
 But to improve ourselves, and serve 
 mankind, 
 
 Life and its choicest faculties were 
 given. 
 
 Man should be ever better than he 
 seems. 
 
 And shape his acts, anil discipline 
 his mind. 
 
 To walk adorning earth, with hope 
 of heaven. 
 
 COLUMBUS. 
 
 He was a man whom danger could 
 
 not daunt, |due; 
 
 Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain sub- 
 A stoic, reckless of the world's vain 
 
 taunt, 
 And steeled the path of honor to pur- 
 sue; 
 So, when by all deserted, still he 
 
 knew 
 How best, to soothe the heart-sick, 
 
 or confront 
 Sedition, schooled with equal eye to 
 
 view 
 The frowns of grief, and the base 
 
 pangs of want. 
 But when he saw that promised land 
 
 arise 
 In all its rare and bright varieties. 
 Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod ; 
 Then softening nature melted in his 
 
 eyes; 
 He knew his fame was full, and 
 
 blessed his God; 
 And fell upon his face, and kissed 
 
 the virgin sod ! 
 
 Aubrey Thomas De Vere. 
 
 [From The Poetic Faculti/.] 
 POWER OF POESY. 
 
 My grief or mirth 
 
 Attunes the earth, 
 I harmonize the world ! 
 
 Eemotest times 
 
 And unfriendly climes 
 In my song lie clasped and curled! 
 
 When an arm too strong 
 
 Does the poor man wrong 
 I shout, and he liursts his chain: 
 
 But at my command 
 
 He drops the brand ; 
 And I sing as he Hings the grain. 
 
 The loved draw near, 
 
 The lost appear; 
 
 I sweeten the mourner's sigh: 
 
 At my vesper lay 
 
 The gafces of day 
 Close back with harmony. 
 
 No plains I reap, 
 
 I fold no sheep 
 Yet my home is on every shore: 
 
 My fancies I wing 
 
 AVith the plumes of spring. 
 And voyage the round earth o'er. 
 
 In the fight I wield 
 
 Nor sword nor shield, 
 But my voice like a lance makes way: 
 
 No crown I bear, 
 
 But the heads that wear 
 Earth's crowns, my word obey. 
 
 Through an age's night 
 
 I fling' the light 
 
DE VERS. 
 
 185 
 
 Of my brow — An Argo soon 
 From her pine-wood leaps 
 On the unt racked deeps ; 
 
 And tlie dark becomes as noon. 
 
 THE ANGELS KISS HER. 
 
 The angels kiss her while she sleeps, 
 And leave their freshness on her 
 breath : 
 Star after star, descending, peeps 
 
 Along her loose hair, dark as death, 
 From his low nest the night-wind 
 creeps, 
 And o'er her bosom wandereth. 
 
 'Tis morning: in their pure embrace 
 The airs of dawn their playmate 
 greet : 
 
 Dusk fields expect their wonted grace. 
 Those silken touches of swift feet: 
 
 With songs the birds salute her face; 
 And Sifence doth her voice entreat! 
 
 BE y DING BETWEEN ME AND THE 
 TAPER. 
 
 Bending between me and the taper 
 While o'er the harp her white hands 
 strayed, 
 
 The shadows of her waving tresses 
 Above my hand were gently swayed . 
 
 With every graceful movement wav- 
 ing. 
 I marked their undulating swell : 
 I watched them while they met and 
 parted . 
 Curled close or widened, rose or fell. 
 
 I laughed in trimtiph and in pleasure. 
 
 So'strange the sport, so undesigned ! 
 
 Her mother turned, and asked me 
 
 gravely, 
 " What thought was passing through 
 my mind?" 
 
 'Tis Love that blinds the eyes of 
 mothers ! 
 'Tis I.ove that makes the young 
 maids fair! 
 
 She touched my hand ; my rings she 
 counted — 
 Yet never felt the shadows there ! 
 
 Keep, gamesome Love, beloved in- 
 fant ! 
 
 Keep ever thus all mothers blind: 
 And make thy dedicated virgins 
 
 In substance as in shadow kind ! 
 
 HAPPY ARE THEY. 
 
 Happy are they who kiss thee, morn 
 
 and even, 
 Parting the hair upon thy forehead 
 
 white: 
 For them the sky is bluer and more 
 
 bright. 
 And purer their thanksgivings rise to 
 
 Heaven. 
 Happy are they to whom thy songs 
 
 are given; 
 Happy are they on whom thy hands 
 
 alight: 
 And happiest they for whom thy 
 
 prayers at night 
 In tender piety so oft have striven. 
 Away with vain regrets and selfish 
 
 sighs — 
 Even l,"dear friend, am lonely, not 
 
 un blest; 
 Permitted sometimes on that form to 
 
 gaze. 
 Or feel the light of those consoling 
 
 eyes — 
 If but a moment on my cheek it 
 
 stays 
 I know that gentle beam from all the 
 
 rest! 
 
 AFFLICTION. 
 
 CouxT each aflliction, whether light 
 or grave, 
 
 God's messenger sent down to thee. 
 Do thou 
 
 With courtesy receive him: rise and 
 bow: 
 
 And, ere his shadow pass thy thresh- 
 old, crave 
 
186 
 
 DE VERB. 
 
 Permission first his heavenly feet to 
 
 lave. 
 Tlien lay before hiiu all thou hast. 
 
 Allow 
 No cloud of passion to usurp thy 
 
 brow, 
 Or mar thy hospitality; no wave 
 Of mortal tumult to obliterate 
 The soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief 
 
 should be 
 Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; 
 Confirming, cleansing, raising, mak- 
 ing free ; 
 Strong to consume small troubles; to 
 
 connnend 
 Great thoughts, grave thoughts, 
 
 thoughts lasting to the end. 
 
 BEATITUDE. 
 
 Blessed is he who hath not trod the 
 
 ways 
 Of secular delights; nor learned the 
 
 lore 
 Which loftier minds are studious to 
 
 abhor. 
 Blessed is he who hath not sought the 
 
 praise 
 That perishes, tlie rapture that be- 
 trays : 
 Who hath not spent in Time's vain- 
 glorious war 
 Ilis youth: and found, a school-boy 
 
 at fourscore. 
 How fatal are tliose victories which 
 
 raise 
 Their iron trophies to a temple's 
 
 height 
 On trampled Justice: who desires not 
 
 bliss. 
 But peace ; and yet when summoned 
 
 to the fight, 
 Combats as one who combats in the 
 
 sight 
 Of God and of His angels, seeking 
 
 this 
 Alone, how best to glorify the Eight. 
 
 THE AlOOD OF EXALTATIOy. 
 
 What man can hear sweet sounds 
 
 and dread to die ? 
 O for a nuisic that might last forever ! 
 
 Abounding from its sources like a 
 river 
 
 Whicli tln-ough the dim lawns streams 
 eternally !' 
 
 Virtue nnght then uplift her crest on 
 high. 
 
 ISpurning those myriad bonds that 
 fret and grieve her: 
 
 Then all the powers of hell would 
 quake and quiver 
 
 Before the ardors of her awful eye. 
 
 Alas for man with all his high de- 
 sires. 
 
 And inward promptings fading day 
 by day ! 
 
 High-titled honor pants while it ex- 
 pires. 
 
 And clay-born gloiy turns again to 
 clay. 
 
 Low instincts last: our great resolves 
 pass by 
 
 Like winds whose loftiest ptean ends 
 but in a sigh. 
 
 ALL THINGS SWEET WHEN 
 I'UIZED. 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
 Crumbling away beneath our very 
 
 feet: 
 Sad is our life, for onward it is flow- 
 ing 
 In current unperceived, because so 
 
 fleet: 
 Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet 
 
 in sowing. 
 But tares, self-sown, have overtopped 
 
 the wheat: 
 Sad are our joys, for they were sweet 
 
 in blowing — 
 And still, oh still, their dying breath 
 
 is sM'eet. 
 And sweet is youth, although it hath 
 
 bereft us 
 Of that whicli made our childhood 
 
 sweeter still : 
 And sweet is middle life, for it hath 
 
 left us 
 A nearer good to cure an older ill: 
 And sweet are all things, when we 
 
 learn to prize them 
 Not for their sake, but His who grants 
 
 them or denies them ! 
 
DICKENS — DICKINSON. 
 
 187 
 
 Charles Dickens. 
 
 THE IVY GREEN. 
 
 Oh! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 
 
 That creepeth o'er ruins old; 
 Of right choice food are his meals, 1 
 ween, 
 In his cell so lone and cold. 
 The walls must be crumbled, the 
 stones decayed, 
 To pleasure his dainty whim ; 
 And the mouldering dust that years 
 have made 
 Is a merry meal for him. 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 Fast he stealeth on, though he wears 
 
 no wings. 
 
 And a staunch old heart has he! 
 
 How closely he twineth, how tight he 
 
 clings 
 
 To his friend, the huge oak tree! 
 
 And slyly he traileth along the 
 ground, 
 And his leaves he gently waves, 
 And he joyously twines and hugs 
 around 
 The rich mould of dead men's 
 graves. 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 Whole ages have fled, and their works 
 decayed. 
 And nations scattered been ; 
 But the stout old Ivy shall never fade 
 
 From its hale and hearty green. 
 The brave old plant in its lonely days 
 
 .Shall fatten upon the past; 
 For the stateliest building man can 
 raise 
 Is the Ivy's food at last. 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 Charles M. Dickinson. 
 
 THE CHILDnEN. 
 
 When the lessons and tasks are all 
 ended. 
 And the school for the day is dis- 
 missed. 
 The little ones gather around me, 
 
 To bid me good-night and be kissed ; 
 Oh, the little white arms that encir- 
 cle 
 My neck in their tender embrace! 
 Oh, the smiles that are halos of heav- 
 en. 
 Shedding sunshine of love on my 
 face! 
 
 And when they are gone I sit dream- 
 ing 
 Of my childhood too lovely to last ; 
 Of joy that my heart will remember. 
 While it wakes to the pulse of the 
 past, 
 
 Ere the world and its wickedness 
 made me 
 
 A partner of sorrow and sin. 
 When the glory of God was about me. 
 
 And the glory of gladness within. 
 
 All my heart grows as weak as a 
 woman's. 
 And the fountains of feeling will 
 flow, 
 •When I think of the patlis steep and 
 stony. 
 Where the feet of the dear ones 
 must go ; 
 Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er 
 them. 
 Of the tempest of Fate blowing 
 wild ; 
 Oh ! there's nothing on earth half so 
 holy 
 As the innocent heart of a child! 
 
They are idols of hearts and of house- 
 holds, 
 They are angels of God in disguise; 
 His sunlight still sleeps in their tres- 
 ses, ' 
 His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
 Those truants from home and from 
 heaven — 
 They have made me more manly 
 and mild ; 
 And I know now how Jesus could 
 liken 
 The kingdom of God to a child I 
 
 I ask not a life for the dear ones, 
 
 All radiant, as others have done, 
 But that life may have just enough 
 shadow 
 To temper the glare of the sun 
 I would pray God to guard them 
 from evil, 
 But my prayer -would bound back 
 to myself ; 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner. 
 But a sinner must pray for himself. 
 
 The twig is so easily bended, 
 
 I have banished the rule and the 
 rod ; 
 I have taught them the goodness of 
 knowledge. 
 They have taught me the goodness 
 of God : 
 
 My heart is the dungeon of darkness. 
 Where I shut them for breaking a 
 rule : 
 
 My frown is sutficient correction; 
 My love is the law of the school. 
 
 I shall leave the old house in the au- 
 tumn. 
 To traverse its threshold no more ; 
 Ah! how 1 shall sigh for the dear 
 ones. 
 That meet me each morn at the 
 door! 
 I shall miss the "good-nights" and 
 kisses, [glee. 
 
 And the gush of their innocent 
 The group on the green, and the 
 flowers 
 That are brought eveiy morning 
 for me. 
 
 I shall miss them at morn and at even. 
 Their song in the school and the 
 street ; 
 I shall miss the low hum of their 
 voices. 
 And the tread of their delicate feet. 
 When the lessons of life are all ended, 
 And death says " The school is dis- 
 missed!" 
 May the little ones gather around me 
 To bid me "good-night" and be 
 kissed ! 
 
 Mary Lowe Dickinson. 
 
 IF WE HAD BUT A DAY. 
 
 We should fill the hours with the^ 
 sweetest things, 
 If we had but a day ; 
 We should drink alone at the piu'est 
 s])rings 
 In our upward way ; 
 We should love with a lifetime's love 
 in an hour. 
 If the hours were few ; 
 We should rest, not for dreams, but 
 for fresher power 
 To be and to do. 
 
 We should guide our wayward or 
 wearied wills 
 By the clearest light; 
 We shoidd keep our eyes on the 
 heavenly hills, 
 If they lay in sight; 
 We should trample the pride and the 
 discontent 
 Beneath our feet ; 
 We should take whatever a good 
 God sent, 
 With a trust complete. 
 
We should waste no moments in 
 weak regret, 
 If the day were but one ; 
 If what we remember and M'hat we 
 forget 
 Went out with tlie sim ; 
 
 We should be from our clamorous 
 selves set free, 
 To work or to pray, 
 And to be what the Father would 
 have us be. 
 If we had but a day. 
 
 Sydney Thompson Dobell, 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! 
 
 Oye 
 Wlio north or soutli, on east or west- 
 ern lands, 
 Native to noble sounds, say truth for 
 
 truth. 
 Freedom for freedom, love for love, 
 
 and God 
 For God. O ye, who in eternal 
 
 youth 
 Speak with a living and creative flood 
 This universal Englisli, and do stand 
 Its breatliing book; live worthy of 
 
 that grand 
 Heroic utterance, — parted, yet a 
 
 whole, 
 Far, yet unsevered, — cliildren brave 
 
 and free 
 Of tlie great mother-tongue, and ye 
 
 shall be 
 Lords of an empire wide as Sliakes- 
 
 peare's soul. 
 Sublime as Milton's immemorial 
 
 theme. 
 And rich as Chaucer's speech, and 
 
 fair as Spenser's dream. 
 
 HOME, WOUNDED. 
 
 Stay wherever you will. 
 
 By the mount or imder the hill. 
 
 Or down by the little river: 
 
 Stay as long as you please. 
 
 Give me only a bud from the trees. 
 
 Or a blade of grass in morning dew. 
 
 Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, 
 
 I could look on it forever. 
 
 Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, 
 Wlieel, wheel through the shadow; 
 There must be odors round the pine. 
 There must be balm of breathing 
 
 kine. 
 Somewhere down in the meadow. 
 Must I choose? Then anchor me 
 
 there 
 Beyond the beckoning poplars, where 
 The larch is snooding her floweiy 
 
 hair 
 With wreaths of morning shadow. 
 Among the thickest hazels of tlie 
 
 brake 
 Perchance some nightingale doth 
 
 shake [song; 
 
 His featliers, and the air is fidl of 
 In those old days when I was young 
 
 and strong. 
 He used to sing on yonder garden tree, 
 Beside the nursery. 
 
 Along my life my length I lay, 
 I fill to-morrow and yesterday, 
 I am warm with the suns that have 
 
 long since set, 
 I am warm with the sunnners that are 
 
 not yet. 
 And like one who dreams and dozes 
 Softly afloat on a sunny sea. 
 Two worlds are whispering over me. 
 And tliere blows a wind of roses 
 From the backward sliore to the shore 
 
 before, 
 From the shore before to the back- 
 ward shore. 
 And like two clouds that meet and pour 
 Each through each, till core in core 
 A single self reposes, 
 The nevermore with the evermore 
 Above me mingles and closes. 
 
190 
 
 DOB SON. 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 
 THE CHILD MUSICIAX. 
 
 He had played for liis lordship's 
 levee, 
 He had played for her ladyship's 
 whim, 
 Till the poor little head was heavy, 
 And the poor little brain would 
 swim. 
 
 And the face grew peaked and eerie, 
 
 And the large eyes strange and 
 
 bright, 
 
 And they said, — too late, — "He is 
 
 weary ! 
 
 He shall rest for at least to-night ! '' 
 
 But at dawn, when the birds were 
 waking, 
 As they watched in the silent 
 room. 
 With the sound of a strained cord 
 breaking, 
 A something snapped in the gloom. 
 
 'Twas a string of his violoncello. 
 And they heard him stir in his bed : 
 
 " Make room for a tired little fellow. 
 Kind God!" was the last that he 
 said. 
 
 THE PRODIGALS. 
 
 " Princes! — and you, most valorous 
 
 Nobles and barons of all degrees ! 
 Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, 
 
 Prodigals driven of destinies ! 
 
 Nothing we ask of gold or fees ; 
 Harry us not with the hounds, we 
 pray; 
 
 Lo! for the surcote's hem we seize, 
 Give us, ah ! give us, — but yester- 
 day! 
 
 "Dames most delicate, amorous! 
 
 Damosels blithe as the belted bees ! 
 Beggars are we that pray thee thus. 
 
 Beggars outworn of miseries! 
 
 Nothing we ask of. the things that 
 please ; 
 Weaiy are we, and old, and gray : 
 
 Lo, — for we clutch and we clasp 
 your knees, — 
 Give us, ah! give us, — but yesterday! 
 
 " Damosels, dames, be piteous!" 
 (But the dames rode fast by the 
 roadway trees. ) 
 " Hear us, O knights magnanimous I " 
 (But the knights pricked on in 
 
 their panoplies.) 
 Nothing they gat of hope or ease. 
 But only to beat on the breast, and 
 say,— 
 "Life we drank to the diegs and 
 
 lees; 
 Give us. all! give us, — but yester- 
 day!" 
 
 EXVOV. 
 
 Youth, take heed to the jirayer of 
 these ! 
 Many there be by the dusty way, — 
 Many that cry to the rocks and seas, 
 "Give us, ah! give us, — but yes- 
 terday ! ' ' 
 
 "FAREWELL, RENOWN!" 
 
 Farewell, Renown! Too fleeting 
 
 flower, 
 
 That grows a year to last an hour ; — 
 
 Prize of the race's dust and heat. 
 
 Too often trodden luider feet, — 
 
 Why should 1 court your "barren 
 
 dower"? 
 
 Nay; had I Dryden's angry power. — 
 The thews of Ben, — the wind of 
 Gower, — 
 Not less my voice should still repeat 
 ' ' Farewell, Renown ! ' ' 
 
 FarcM'ell !— Because the Muses' bower 
 
 Is filled with rival brows that lower; — 
 
 Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet, 
 
 The Bard, that " pays," must please 
 
 the street; — 
 
 But most . . . because the grapes are 
 
 sour, — 
 
 Farewell, Renown ! 
 
DODGE. 
 
 191 
 
 Mary Mapes Dodge. 
 
 THE HUMAN TIE. 
 
 "As if life were not sacred, too." 
 
 George Eliot. 
 
 " Speak tenderly! For he is dead," 
 we say ; 
 "With gracious hand smootli all 
 liis rougliened past, 
 And fullest measure of reward 
 forecast, 
 
 Forgetting naught that gloried his 
 brief day." 
 
 Yet of the brother, who, along our 
 way, 
 Prone with his burdens, heart- 
 worn in the strife, 
 Totters before us — how we search 
 his life. 
 
 Censure, and sternly punish, while 
 we may. 
 
 Oh, weary are the paths of Earth, 
 and hard ! 
 
 And living hearts alone are ours to 
 guard. 
 
 At least, begrudge not to the sore dis- 
 traught 
 
 The reverent silence of our pitying 
 thought. 
 
 Life, too, is sacred; and he best for- 
 gives 
 
 Who says : " He errs, but — tenderly ! 
 He lives." 
 
 MY WIXDOW-IVY. 
 
 OvEU my window the ivy climbs. 
 Its roots are in homely jars: 
 
 But all the day it looks at the sun. 
 And at night looks out at the stars. 
 
 Tlie dust of the room may dim its 
 green. 
 But I call to the breezy air: 
 " Come in, come in, good friend of 
 mine ! 
 And make my window fair." 
 
 So the ivy thrives from morn to morn. 
 Its leaves all turned to the light; 
 
 And it gladdens my soul ■with its 
 tender green. 
 And teaches me day and night. 
 
 What though my lot is in lowly place, 
 And my spirit behind the bars; 
 
 All tlie long day I may look at the 
 sun, 
 And at night look out at the stars. 
 
 What though the dust of earth would 
 dim? 
 There's a glorious outer air 
 Tliat will sweei3 through my soul if I 
 let it in, 
 And make it fresh and fair. 
 
 Dear God ! let me grow from day to 
 day. 
 Clinging and sunny and bright! 
 Though planted in shade. Thy m in- 
 dow is near. 
 And my leaves may turn to the 
 light. 
 
 DEATH IX LIFE. 
 
 She sitteth there a moiu'uer. 
 
 With her dead before her eyes ; 
 Flushed with the hues of life is he 
 
 And quiciv are his replies. 
 Often his warm hand touches hers; 
 
 Brightly liis glances fall; 
 And yet, in this wide world, is she 
 
 The loneliest of all. 
 
 Some mom-ners feel their dead return 
 
 In dreams, or thoughts at even ; 
 Ah, well for them their best-beloved 
 
 Are faithful still in heaven! 
 But woe to her whose best beloved. 
 
 Though dead, still lingers near; 
 So far away when by her side, 
 
 He cannot see nor hear. 
 
 Witli heart intent, he comes, he goes 
 
 In busy ways of life. 
 His gains and chances counteth he; 
 
 His hours with joy are rife. 
 
192 
 
 BODGE. 
 
 Careless he greets her day by clay, 
 Nor thinks of words once said, — 
 
 Oh, would that love could live again, 
 Or her heart give up its dead! 
 
 HEART-ORACLES. 
 
 By the motes do we know where the 
 sunbeam is slanting; 
 Through the hindering stones, 
 speaks the soul of the brook; 
 
 Past the rustle of leaves we press 
 into the stillness; 
 Through darkness and void to the 
 Pleiads we look; 
 
 One bird-note at dawn with the night- 
 silence o'er us. 
 
 Begins all the morning's munificent 
 chorus. 
 
 Through sorrow come glimpses of 
 infinite gladness; 
 Through grand discontent mounts 
 the spirit of youth; 
 
 Loneliness foldeth a wonderful lov- 
 ing; 
 The lireakers of Doubt lead the 
 great tide of Truth: 
 
 And dread and grief-haunted the 
 shadowy poital 
 
 That shuts from our vision the splen- 
 dor immortal. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE SEA. 
 
 One summer day, when birds flew 
 high. 
 
 1 saw a child step into the sea; 
 It glowed and sparkled at her touch 
 
 And softly plashed about her 
 knee. 
 It held her lightly with its strength. 
 
 It kissed and kissed her silken hair ; 
 It swayed with tenderness to know 
 
 A little child was in its care. 
 
 She, gleeful, dipped her pretty arms. 
 And caught the sparkles in her 
 hands ; 
 
 I lieard her laughter, as she soon 
 Came skipping up the sunny sands. 
 
 " Is this the -cruel sea ? " I thought, 
 " The merciless, the awful sea ? " — 
 
 Now hear the answer soft and true. 
 That rippled over the beach to me : 
 
 •'Shall not the sea, in the sun, be 
 glad 
 When a child doth come to play ? 
 Had it been in the storm-time, wliat 
 could I, 
 The sea, but bear her away — 
 Bear lier away on my foaming crest. 
 Toss her and hurry her to her rest '.' 
 
 " Be it life or death, God ruleth me; 
 
 And he lovetli every soul : 
 I've an earthly shore and a heavenly 
 shore. 
 And toward them both I roll ; 
 Shining and beautiful, lioth are 
 they, — 
 And a little child will go God's 
 way. ' ' 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 They wait all day unseen by us, un- 
 felt; 
 Patient they bide behind the day's 
 
 full glare; 
 And we" who watched the dawn 
 when they were there. 
 Thought we had seen them in the 
 
 daylight melt. 
 While the slow sun upon the earth- 
 line knelt. 
 Because the teeming sky seemed 
 
 void and bare, 
 W^hen we explored it through the 
 dazzled air, 
 ^Ve had no thought that there all 
 
 day they dwelt. 
 Yet were they over us, alive and true. 
 In the vast shades far up above the 
 
 blue, — 
 The brooding shades beyond our 
 daylight ken — 
 Serene and patient in their con- 
 scious light 
 Ready to sparkle for our joy again, — 
 The eternal jewels of the short- 
 lived night. 
 
Julia C. R. Dorr. 
 
 WHAT SHE THOUGHT. 
 
 Mahion showed me her wedding 
 gown 
 And her veil of gossamer lace to- 
 night, 
 And the orange-blooms that to-mor- 
 row morn 
 Shall fade in her soft hair's golden 
 light. 
 But Philip came to the open door: 
 Like the heart of a wild-rose 
 glowed her cheek, 
 And they wandered off through the 
 garden paths 
 So blest that they did not care to 
 speak. 
 
 I wonder how it seems to be loved : 
 To know you are fair in some 
 one's eyes; 
 Tliat upon some one your beauty 
 dawns 
 Every day as a new surprise ; 
 To know, that, whether you weep or 
 smile. 
 Whether your mood be grave or 
 gay, 
 Somebody thinks you, all the while. 
 Sweeter than any flower of May. 
 
 I wonder what it would be to love: 
 That, I think, would be sweeter 
 far. 
 To know that one out of all the world 
 Was lord of your life, your king, 
 your star. 
 They talk of love's sweet tumult and 
 pain: 
 I am not sure that I understand. 
 Though, — a thrill ran down to my 
 fmger-tips 
 Once when, — somebody, — touched 
 my hand ! 
 
 I wonder what it would be to dream 
 
 Of a child that might one day be 
 
 your own: [part. 
 
 Of the hidden springs of your life a 
 
 Flesh of your flesh, and bone of 
 
 your bone. 
 
 Marion stooped one day to kiss 
 A beggar's babe with a tender 
 grace ; 
 While some sweet thought, like a 
 prophecy, 
 Looked from her pure Madonna 
 face. 
 
 1 wonder what it must be to think 
 To-morrow will be your wedding- 
 day. 
 And you, in the radiant sunset glow 
 Down fragrant flowery paths will 
 stray. 
 As Marion does this blessed night. 
 With Philip, lost in a blissful 
 dream. 
 Can she feel his heart through the 
 silence beat? 
 Does he see her eyes in the star- 
 light gleam ? 
 
 Questioning thus, my days go on ; 
 
 But never an answer comes to me : 
 All love's mysteries, sweet as strange, 
 
 Sealed away from my life must be. 
 Yet still I dream, O lieart of mine! 
 
 Of a beautiful city that lies afar; 
 And there, some time, I shall drop 
 the mask. 
 
 And be shapely and fair as others 
 are. 
 
 AT THE LAST. 
 
 Wii-L the day ever come, I wonder. 
 
 When I shall be glad to know 
 That my hands will be folded under 
 
 The next white fall of the snow ? 
 To know that when next the clover 
 
 Wooeth the wandering bee, 
 Its crimson tide will driift over 
 
 All that is left of me ? ' 
 
 Shall I ever be tired of living. 
 And be glad to go to mv rest, 
 
 With a cool and fragrant lily 
 Asleep on my silent breast ? 
 
194 
 
 DORR. 
 
 Will my eyes grow weary of seeing, 
 As the hours pass, one by one. 
 
 Till I long for the hush and the dark- 
 ness 
 As I never longed for tlie sun ? 
 
 God knoweth ! Some time, it may be, 
 
 I shall smile to hear you say : 
 "Dear heart! she will not waken 
 
 At the dawn of another day ! " 
 And some time, love, it may be, 
 
 I shall whisper under my breath : 
 '' The happiest hour of my life, dear. 
 
 Is this, — the hour of my death ! ' ' 
 
 WHAT NEED.' 
 
 " What need has the singer to sing? 
 
 And why should your poet to-day 
 His pale little garland of i^oesy bring. 
 
 On the altar to lay ? 
 High-priests of song the harp-strings 
 
 swept 
 Ages before he smiled or wept'! " 
 
 What need have the roses to bloom ? 
 
 And why do the tall lilies grow ? 
 
 And wliy do the violets shed their 
 
 l)erfume 
 
 When night-winds breathe low ? 
 
 They are no whit more bright and 
 
 fair ~ I air! 
 
 Than flowers that breathed in Eden's 
 
 What need have the stars to shine 
 on ? 
 Or the clouds to grow red in the 
 west, 
 When the sun, like a king, from the 
 fields he has won. 
 Goes grandly to rest ? 
 No brighter they than stars and skies 
 That greeted Eve's sweet, wonder- 
 
 mg eyes 
 
 What need has the eagle to soar 
 
 So proudly straight up to the sun '? 
 Or the robin such jubilant music to 
 pour 
 When day is begun ? 
 The eagles soared, the robins sung, 
 A3 high, as sweet, when earth was 
 young ! 
 
 AVhat need, do you ask me ? Each 
 
 day 
 Hath a song and a prayer of its 
 
 own. 
 As each June hath its crown of fresh 
 
 roses, each May 
 Its bright emerald throne! 
 Its own high thought each age shall 
 
 stir. 
 Each needs its own interpreter ! 
 
 And thou, O, my poet, sing on I 
 
 Sing on until love shall grow old; 
 Till patience and faith their last tri- 
 umphs have won. 
 And truth is a tale that is told! 
 Doubt not, thy song shall still be new 
 While life endures and God is true! 
 
 PERADVENTURE. 
 
 I AM thinking to-night of the little 
 child 
 That lay on my breast three sum- 
 mer days. 
 Then swiftly, silently, dropped from 
 sight, 
 W^hile my soul cried out in sore 
 amaze. 
 
 It is fifteen years ago to-niglit; 
 
 Somewliere, I know, he has lived 
 
 them through. 
 
 Perhaps with never a thought or 
 
 dream |knew! 
 
 Of the mother-heart he never 
 
 Is he yet but a babe ? or has he grown 
 To be like his brothers, fair and 
 tall. 
 With a clear bright eye, and a spring- 
 ing step. 
 And a voice that rings like a bugle 
 
 I loved him. The rose in his waxen 
 hand 
 Was wet with the dew of my fall- 
 ing tears; 
 I have kept the thought of my baby's 
 grave 
 Througli all the length of these 
 changeful years. 
 
Yet the love I gave him was not like 
 that 
 I give to-day to my other boys, 
 Who have grown beside me, and 
 turned to me 
 In all their griefs and in all their 
 joys. 
 
 Do you think he knows it ? I won- 
 der nuicli 
 If the dead are passionless, cold 
 and dumb; 
 If into the calm of the deathless 
 years 
 No thrill of a human love may 
 come ! 
 
 Perhaps sometimes from the upper 
 air 
 He has seen me walk with his 
 brothers three; 
 Or felt in the tender twilight hour 
 The breath of the kisses they gave 
 to me ! 
 
 Over his birthright, lost so soon, 
 Perhaps he has sighed as the swift 
 years flew; 
 O child of my heart! you shall find 
 somewhere 
 The love that on earth you never 
 knew 1 
 
 THOU KNOW EST. 
 
 Thou knowest, O my Father! Why 
 should I 
 Weary high heaven with restless 
 prayers and tears ! 
 Thou knowest all ! My heart's unut- 
 tered cry 
 Hath soared beyond the stars and 
 reached Thine ears. 
 
 Thou knowest.— ah. Thou knowest! 
 Then what need, 
 O, loving God, to tell Thee o'er 
 and o'er. 
 And with persistent iteration plead 
 As one who crieth at some closed 
 door '? 
 
 "Tease not!" we mothers to our 
 children say. — 
 " Oiu' wiser love w ill grant what e'er 
 is best." 
 ,Shall we. Thy children, run to Thee 
 alway. 
 Begging for this and that in wild 
 
 I dare not clamor at the heavenly 
 gate. 
 Lest I should lose the high, sweet 
 strains within; 
 O, Love Divine! I can but stand and 
 wait 
 Till Perfect Wisdom bids me en- 
 ter in ! 
 
 FIVE. 
 
 "BvT a week is so long! " he said, 
 AVith a toss of his curly head. 
 
 " One, two, three, four, five, six. 
 seven ! — 
 
 Seven Avliole days ! Why, in six you 
 know 
 
 (You said it yourself, — you told me 
 so) 
 
 The great God up in heaven 
 
 Made all the earth and the seas and 
 skies, 
 
 The trees and the birds and the but- 
 terflies ! 
 
 IIow can I wait for mv seeds to 
 
 ' ' But a month is so long ! " he 
 
 said. 
 With a droop of his boyish head. 
 "Hear me count, — one, two, three, 
 
 four, — 
 Four whole weeks, and three days 
 
 more ; 
 Thirty-one days, and each will creep 
 As the shadows crawl over yonder 
 
 steep. 
 Thirty-one nights, and I shall lie 
 Watching the stars climb up the sky.' 
 How cani Mait till a month is o'er?" 
 
 "But a year is so long!" he said. 
 Uplifting his bright young head. 
 
"All the seasons must come and go 
 Over the hill with footsteps slow, — 
 Autumn and winter, summer and 
 
 spring; 
 Oh, for a bridge of gold to fling 
 Over the chasm deep and wide, 
 That I might cross to the other side. 
 Where she is waiting, — my love, my 
 
 bride!" 
 
 " Ten years may be long," he said, 
 Slow raising his stately head, 
 " But there's much to win, there is 
 
 much to lose; 
 A man must labor, a man nuist 
 
 choose. 
 And he must be strong to wait! 
 The years may be long, but who 
 
 would wear 
 The crown of honor, must do and 
 
 dare ! 
 No time has he to toy with fate 
 Who would climb to manhood's high 
 
 estate!" 
 
 " Ah ! life is not long! " he said. 
 Bowing his grand white head. 
 
 " One, two, three, four, five, six, 
 seven! 
 
 Seven times ten are seventy. 
 
 Seventy years ! as swift their flight 
 
 As swallows cleaving the morning 
 light. 
 
 Or golden gleams at even. 
 
 Life is short as a simimer night, — 
 
 How long, O God ! is eternity ? " 
 
 AT DAWN. 
 
 At dawn when the jubilant morning 
 broke. 
 And its glory flooded the mountain 
 side, 
 I said, " 'Tis eleven years to-day, 
 Eleven years since my darling 
 died!" 
 
 And then I turned to my household 
 ways. 
 
 To my daily tasks, without, within, 
 As happily busy all the day 
 
 As if my darling had never been ! 
 
 As if she had never lived, or died! 
 Yet when they buried her out of 
 my sight, 
 I thought the sun had gone down at 
 noon. 
 And the day could never again be 
 bright. 
 
 Ah, well ! As the swift years come 
 and go. 
 
 It will not be long ere I shall lie 
 Somewhere under a bit of turf. 
 
 With my pale hands folded quietly. 
 
 And then some one who has loved 
 me well, — 
 Perhaps the one wlio has loved me 
 best, — 
 Will say of me as I said of her, 
 "She has been just so many years 
 at rest," — 
 
 Then turn to the living loves again, 
 To the busy life, without, within. 
 
 And the day will go on from dawn to 
 dusk, 
 Even as if 1 had never been ! 
 
 Dear hearts! dear hearts! It must 
 still be so! 
 The roses will bloom, and the stars 
 will shine. 
 And the soft green grass creep still 
 and slow. 
 Sometime over a grave of mine, — 
 
 And over the grave in your liearts as 
 well ! 
 
 Ye cannot hinder it if ye would ; 
 And I, — ah! I shall be wiser then, — 
 
 I would not hinder it if I could! 
 
Joseph Rodman Drake. 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain 
 heiglit 
 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 
 And set the stars of glory there; 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 And striped its pure, celestial wliite 
 With streakings of the morning 
 
 light; 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 She called her eagle-bearer doWn, 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 
 To hear the tempest-trumi>ings loud. 
 And see the lightning lances driven, 
 
 When strive the warriors of the 
 storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of 
 
 heaven ; 
 Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free. 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
 To ward away the battle-stroke. 
 And bid its blendings shine afar. 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory ! 
 
 Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly. 
 The sign of hope and triumph high, 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone. 
 And the long line comes gleaming 
 
 on; " 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
 Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy sky-born gtories burn, 
 
 And, as bis springing steps advance, 
 
 Catch war and vengeance from the 
 glance ; 
 
 And when the cannon-mouthings 
 loud 
 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle- 
 shroud. 
 
 And gory sabres rise and fall, 
 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's 
 pall; 
 
 Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, 
 And cowering foes shall sink be- 
 neath 
 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
 When death, careering on the gale. 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied 
 
 sail. 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broad-side's reeling rack, 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and 
 
 thee. 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and 
 home. 
 By angel hands to valor given ; 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 
 And all thy hues were born in 
 heaven. 
 For ever float that standard sheet ! 
 Where breathes the foe but falls 
 before us, 
 AVith Freedom's soil beneath our 
 feet, 
 And Freedom's banner streaming 
 o'er us ? 
 
198 
 
 DBA YTON — DR UMMOND. 
 
 Michael Drayton. 
 
 THE PARTIXG. 
 
 SiNX'E there's no help, coine, let us 
 kiss and part; 
 Nay, I have done, you get no more 
 of nie; 
 And I am glad, yea, glad with all my 
 heart 
 That thus so cleanly 1 myself can 
 free ; 
 Shake hands for ever, cancel all our 
 vows ; 
 And when we meet at any time 
 again. 
 Be it not seen in either of our brows 
 
 That we one jot of former love re- 
 tain. — 
 Now at the last gasp of Love's latest 
 breath. 
 When his pulse failing, Passion 
 speechless lies. 
 When Faith is kneeling by his bed of 
 death, 
 And Innocence is closing up his 
 eyes. 
 Now if thou wouldst, when all have 
 
 given him over, 
 From death to life thou mighfst him 
 yet recover. 
 
 William Drummond. 
 
 DESPITE ALL. 
 
 I KNOW that all beneath the moon 
 
 decays ; 
 And what tjy mortals in this world is 
 
 brought, 
 In time's great periods shall return 
 
 to nought ; 
 That fairest states have fatal nights 
 
 and days. 
 I know that all the Muses' heavenly 
 
 lays. 
 With toil of sprite which are so dear- 
 ly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of fev/ or none are 
 
 sought ; 
 That there is nothing lighter than 
 
 vain praise. 
 I know frail beauty's like the purple 
 
 floM'er 
 To which one morn oft birth and 
 
 death affords; 
 That love a jarring is of mind's 
 
 accords. 
 Where sense and will bring under 
 
 reason's power: 
 Know Avhat I list, this all cannot me 
 
 move, [love. 
 
 But that, alas ! I both nuist write and 
 
 WH4T WE TOIL FOR. 
 
 Of mortal glory O soon darkened 
 
 ray! 
 O wiim^d joys of man, more swift 
 
 than wind! 
 O fond desires, which in our fancies 
 
 stray ! 
 O traitorous hopes, which do our 
 
 judgments blind! 
 Lo, in a flash that light is gone away 
 Which dazzle did each eye, delight 
 
 each mind. 
 And, with that sun from whence it 
 
 came combined, 
 Now makes more radiant Heaven's 
 
 eternal day. 
 Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks 
 
 with tears; 
 Let widowed Music only roar and 
 
 groan ; 
 Poor Virtue, get thee wings and 
 
 mount the spheres. 
 For dwelling-place on earth for thee 
 
 is none! 
 Death hath thy temple razed. Love's 
 
 empire foiled, 
 The world of honor, worth, and 
 
 sweetness spoiled. 
 
DRYDEN. 
 
 199 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. 
 AN ODE IX HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 
 
 'TwAS at the royal feast, for Persia won 
 By Philip's warlike son: 
 Aloft in awful state 
 The godlike hero sate 
 
 On his imperial throne: 
 His valiant peers were placed around, 
 Tlieir brows with roses and with myitles bound ; 
 (So should desert in arms be crowned.) 
 The lovely Thais by his side,, 
 Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 
 Happy, happy, happy pair"! 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 CHORrS. 
 
 Happy, happy, happy pair ! 
 None but the brave. 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserves the fair. 
 
 Timotheus placed on high, 
 Amid the tuneful choir. 
 With flying fingers touched the lyre: 
 The trembling notes ascend the sky, 
 
 And heavenly joys inspire. • 
 The song began from .Jove, 
 Who left his blissful seats above, 
 (Such is the power of mighty love. ) 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the god: 
 Sublime on radiant spires he rode. 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed: 
 And while he sought her snowy breast: 
 Then round her slender waist he curled. 
 And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty soimd, 
 A present deity! thev shout around': 
 A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound. 
 With ravislied ears 
 The monarch hears, 
 Assumes the god, 
 Affects to nod. 
 And seems to shake the spheres. 
 
 "m 
 
CHORUS. 
 
 With ravished ears 
 The monarch liears, 
 Assumes the god, 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake tlie spheres. 
 
 The praise of Bacclius tlien the sweet musician sung. 
 Of Bacchus — ever fair and ever young: 
 The jolly god in triumph comes; 
 Sound thetrumpets ; beat the drums : 
 Flushed with a purple grace 
 He shows his honest face; 
 Now give the hautboys breath. He comes ! he comes ! 
 Bacchus, ever fair and young. 
 
 Drinking joys did first ordain; 
 Bacchus' blessings' are a treasure. 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
 Rich the treasure. 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure, 
 
 Kich the treasure, 
 
 Sweet the pleasure. 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 
 Soothed with the sound the king grew vain; 
 
 Fought all his battles o'er again; 
 And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain. 
 The master saw the madness rise ; 
 His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
 And, while he^ieaven and earth defied. 
 Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
 He chose a mournful muse 
 Soft pity to infuse: 
 He sung Darius, great and good ; 
 
 By too severe a fate, 
 Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
 Fallen from his high estate, 
 
 And weltering in his blood ; 
 Deserted, at his utmost need. 
 By those his foi'mer bounty fed ; 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies, 
 With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, 
 Revolving in his altered soul 
 
 The various tiu'ns of chance below; 
 And, now and then a sigh he stole ; 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
DRYJJEN. 
 
 201 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Revolving; in his altered soul 
 
 The vaiious turns of chance below ; 
 
 And, now an^J then, a sigh he stole; 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 The mighty master smiled, to see 
 That love was in the next degree; 
 'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, 
 For pity melts the mind to love. 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
 War, he sung, is toil and trouble; 
 Honor but an empty l)ut)ble; 
 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying: 
 
 If the world be worth thy winning, 
 Think, oh, think it worth enjoying: 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
 The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care. 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
 At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 The prince, imabled to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the fair 
 Who caused his care. 
 And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. 
 Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
 At length with love and wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again : 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. 
 Break his bands of sleeji asunder, 
 And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head: 
 As awaked from the dead. 
 And amazed, lie siares around. 
 Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries, 
 See the furies arise ! 
 See the snakes that they rear, 
 How they hiss in their hair! 
 And the spai-kles that flash from their eyes ! 
 
202 
 
 DRY DEN. 
 
 Behold a ghastly band, 
 Each a torch in his hand ! 
 Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
 And unburied remain, 
 Inglorious on the plain: * 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew. 
 Behold how they toss their torches on high, 
 How they point to the Persian abodes. 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 
 The princes applaud with a furious joy : 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
 Thais led the way. 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, tired another Troy! 
 
 And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
 
 Thais led the way, 
 
 To light him to his prey. 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! 
 
 Thus long ago, 
 Ere lieaving bellows learned to blow. 
 While organs yet were mute; 
 Timotheus, to his breathing flute. 
 And sounding lyre. 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store. 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
 And added length to solemn sounds. 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown; 
 He raised a mortal to the skies ; 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
 GKAND CHOKUS. 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inventress of the vocal frame ; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, 
 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds. 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown; 
 He raised a mortal to the skies. 
 
 She drew an angel down. 
 
DRYDEN. 
 
 203 
 
 A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY. 
 
 Fkom harmony, from heavenly hannony, 
 
 This universal frame began: 
 
 When nature underneath a hea-i 
 
 Of jarring atoms lay. 
 And could not heave her head. 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 
 "Arise, ye more than dead." 
 Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 
 In order to their stations leap. 
 And 3Iusic's power obey. 
 From hai-mony, from heavenly harmony 
 This universal frame began: 
 From harmony to harmony. 
 Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
 The diapason closing full in Man. 
 
 What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
 When Jubal struck the corded shell. 
 His listening brethren stood around. 
 And, wondering, on their faces fell 
 To worship that celestial sound. 
 Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
 Within the hollow of that shell. 
 That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
 What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? 
 
 The trumpet's loud clangor 
 
 Excites us to arms, 
 With shrill notes of anger, 
 
 And mortal alarms. 
 The double, double, double beat 
 
 Of the thundering drum 
 
 Cries, " Hark! the foes come; 
 Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat." 
 
 The soft complaining flute 
 In dying notes discovers 
 The woes of hopeless lovers, 
 Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. 
 
 Sharp violins complain 
 Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
 Fury, frantic indignation. 
 Depth of pains, and height of passion. 
 For the fair disdainful dame. 
 But oh! what art can teach, 
 What human voice can reach, 
 The sacred organ's praise ? 
 Notes inspiring holy love, 
 Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
 To mend the choirs above. 
 
204 
 
 DRTDEN. 
 
 Orpheus could lead the savage race ; 
 And trees uprooted left their place, 
 
 Sequacious of the lyre: 
 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher 
 "When to her organ vocal breath was given, 
 An angel heard, and straight appeared 
 
 Mistaking earth for heaven. 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 As from the power of sacred lays 
 The spheres began to move, 
 And sung the great Creator's praise 
 
 To all the blessed above ; 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour. 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
 The dead shall live, the living die, 
 And Music shall luitune the §ky. 
 
 UNDER THE PORTIIAIT OF JOHN 
 MIL TON. 
 
 [Prefixed to '" Paradise Lost."] 
 
 Three poets in three distant ages 
 born, 
 
 Greece, Italy, and England, did 
 adorn. 
 
 The first in loftiness of thought sur- 
 passed ; 
 
 The next in majesty; in both the 
 last, 
 
 The force of nature could no further 
 go; 
 
 To make a third, she joined the 
 former two. 
 
 YFrom Beligio Laid.] 
 THE LIGHT OF REASON. 
 
 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon 
 and stars 
 
 To lonely, weary, wandering travel- 
 lers. 
 
 Is reason to the soul: and as on high. 
 
 Those rolling fires discover but the 
 sky. 
 
 Not light us here; so Reason's glim- 
 mering ray 
 
 Was lent, not to assure our doubtful 
 way, 
 
 But guide us upward to a better day. 
 
 And as these nightly tapers disappear, 
 
 AVhen day's bright lord ascends our 
 hemisphere; 
 
 So i^ale grows Reason at Religion's 
 sight; 
 
 So dies, and so dissolves in supernat- 
 ural light. 
 
 [F7-oni Religio Laid.] 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 If on the book itself we cast our 
 view, 
 
 Concuirent heathens prove the story 
 true ; 
 
 The doctrine, miracles; whicli must 
 convince. 
 
 For Heaven in them appeals to hu- 
 man sense: 
 
 And though they prove not, they con- 
 firm the cause. 
 
 When what is taught agrees with na- 
 ture's laws. 
 Then for the style, majestic and 
 divine. 
 
 It speaks no less than God in every 
 line: 
 
 Commanding words, whose force is 
 still the same 
 
 As the first fiat that produced our 
 frame. 
 
All faiths beside, or did by arms as- 
 cend, 
 
 Or sense indulged has made mankind 
 their friend ; 
 
 This only doctrine does our lusts op- 
 pose : 
 
 Unfed by nature's soil, in which it 
 grows ; 
 
 Cross to our interests, curbing sense 
 and sin; 
 
 Oppressed without, and undermined 
 within, 
 
 It thrives through i)ain; its own tor- 
 mentors tires; 
 
 And with a stubborn patience still 
 aspires. 
 
 To what can Keason such effects as- 
 sign 
 
 Transcending nature, but to laws 
 divine ? 
 
 Which in that sacred volume are 
 contained; 
 
 Sufficient, clear, and for that use or- 
 dained. 
 
 DRY DEN. 
 
 [From lieligio Laici-I 
 JUDGMENT IN STUDYING IT. 
 
 The unlettered Christian, who be- 
 lieves in gross, 
 
 Plods on to heaven, and ne'er is at a 
 loss: 
 
 For the strait-gate would be made 
 straiter yet. 
 
 Were none admitted there but men 
 of wit. 
 
 The few by nature formed, with 
 learning fraught, 
 
 Born to instruct, as others to be 
 taught. 
 
 Must study well the sacred page : and 
 see 
 
 Which doctrine, this or that, doth 
 best agree 
 
 With the whole tenor of the work di- 
 vine ; 
 
 And plainliest points to Heaven's re- 
 vealed design : 
 
 Which exposition flows from genuine 
 sense ; 
 
 And which is forced by wit and elo- 
 quence. 
 
 \_From Helit/io LnicL] 
 
 THE AVOIDANCE OF RELIGIOUS 
 
 DISPUTES. 
 
 A THOUSAND daily sects rise up and 
 
 die; 
 A thousand more the perished race 
 
 supply; 
 So all we make of Heaven's discov- 
 ered will. 
 Is, not to have it, or to use it ill. 
 The danger's much the same; on 
 
 several shelves 
 If others wreck us, or we wreck our- 
 selves. 
 What then remains, but, waiving 
 
 each extreme, 
 The tide of ignorance and pride to 
 
 stem ? 
 Neither so rich a treasure to forego, 
 Nor proudly seek beyond our power 
 
 to know: 
 Faith is not built on disquisitions 
 
 vain: 
 The things we must believe are few 
 
 and plain : 
 But since men will believe more than 
 
 they nee J, 
 And every man will make himself a 
 
 creed, 
 In doubtful questions 'tis the safest 
 
 way 
 To learn what unsusi^ected ancients 
 
 say: 
 For 'tis not likely we should higher 
 
 soar 
 In search of Heaven, than all the 
 
 Church before : 
 Nor can we be deceived, unless we 
 
 see Igree. 
 
 The Scripture and the Fathers disa- 
 If after all they stand suspected still, 
 (For no man's faith depends upon 
 
 his will;) 
 'Tis some relief, that points no! 
 
 clearly known. 
 Without much hazard may be let 
 
 alone : 
 And after hearing what our Church 
 
 can say, 
 If still our reason runs another way. 
 That private reason 'tis more just to 
 
 curb, [disturb. 
 
 Than by disputes the public ijeace 
 
206 
 
 DRY DEN. 
 
 For points obscure are of small use 
 
 A future cordial for a fainting mind; 
 
 to learn; 
 
 For, what was ne'er refused, all hoped 
 
 But common quiet is mankind's con- 
 
 to find. 
 
 cern. 
 
 Each in his turn, the rich might 
 
 
 freely come. 
 As to a friend; but to the poor, 'twas 
 
 
 
 home. 
 
 [From Ftconnra.] 
 
 As to some holy house the afflicted 
 
 A WIFE. 
 
 came. 
 
 
 The hunger-starved, the naked and 
 
 A AViFE as tender, and as true 
 
 the lame; 
 
 withal, 
 
 Want and disease both fled before 
 
 As the first -woman was before her 
 
 her name. 
 
 fall: 
 
 For zeal like hers her servants were 
 
 Made for the man, of whom she was 
 
 too slow ; 
 
 a part ; 
 
 She was the first, where need required. 
 
 Made to attract his eyes, and keep 
 
 to go; 
 
 his heart. 
 
 Herself the foundress and attendant 
 
 A second Eve, but by no crime ac- 
 
 too. 
 
 cursed ; 
 
 
 As beauteous, not as brittle as the 
 
 
 first. 
 
 
 Had she been first, still Paradise had 
 
 [From Eleonnra.] 
 
 been, 
 
 BEAUTIFUL DEATH. 
 
 And death had found no entrance by 
 
 
 her sin. 
 
 As precious gums are not for last- 
 
 So she not only had preserved from ill 
 
 ing fire. 
 
 Her sex and ours, but lived their pat- 
 
 They but perfume the temple, and 
 
 tern still. 
 
 expire: 
 
 
 So was she soon exhaled and van- 
 
 
 ished hence ; 
 
 
 
 A short sweet odor of avast expense. 
 
 [From Elcnnora.'] 
 
 She vanished, we can scarcely say 
 
 CHAIUTY. 
 
 she died: 
 
 
 For but a now did heaven and earth 
 
 Want passed for merit at her open 
 
 divide: 
 
 door: 
 
 She passed serenely with a single 
 
 Heaven saw, he safely might increase 
 
 breath ; 
 
 his poor, 
 
 This moment perfect health, the next 
 
 And trust their sustenance with her 
 
 was death : 
 
 so well. 
 
 One sigh did her eternal bliss assure; 
 
 As not to be at charge of miracle. 
 
 So little penance needs, when souls 
 
 None could be needy, whom she saw 
 
 are almost pure. 
 
 or knew ; 
 
 As gentle dreams our waking thoughts 
 
 All in the compass of her sphere she 
 
 pursue ; 
 
 drew. 
 
 Or, one dream passed, we slide into a 
 
 He, who could touch her garment, was 
 
 new ; 
 
 as sure. 
 
 So close they follow, such wild order 
 
 As the first Christians of the apostles' 
 
 keep. 
 
 cure. 
 
 We think ourselves awake, and are 
 
 The distant heard, by fame, her pious 
 
 asleep : 
 
 deeds, 
 
 So softly death succeeded life in her: 
 
 And laid her up for their extremest 
 
 She did but di'eam of heaven, and she 
 
 needs ; 
 
 was there. 
 
DRY DEN. 
 
 207 
 
 No pains she suffered, nor expired 
 
 with noise; 
 Her soul ■ was whispered out witli 
 
 God's still voice; 
 As an old friend is beckoned to a 
 
 feast, 
 And treated like a long-familiar 
 
 guest. 
 He took her as he found, but found 
 
 her so. 
 As one in hourly readiness to go: 
 E'en on that day, in all her trim pre- 
 pared ; 
 As early notice she from heaven had 
 
 heard ; 
 And some descending courier from 
 
 above [move ; 
 
 Had given her timely warning to re- 
 Or counselled her to dress the nuptial 
 
 room. 
 For on that night the bridegroom was 
 
 to come. 
 He kept his hour, and found her 
 
 where she lay 
 Clothed all in white, the livery of the 
 
 day; 
 Scarce had she sinned in thought, or 
 
 word , or act ; 
 Unless omissions were to pass for 
 
 fact: 
 That hardly death a consequence 
 
 could draw, 
 To make her liable to nature's law. 
 And, that she died, we only have to 
 
 show 
 The mortal part of her she left be- 
 low: 
 The rest, so smooth, so suddenly she 
 
 went, 
 Looked like translation through the 
 
 firmament. 
 
 \_From The Character of a Good Parson.] 
 THE MODEL rUEACHER, ^ 
 
 Yet of his little he had some to 
 
 spare. 
 To feed the famished and to clothe 
 
 the l)are : 
 For mortified he was to that degree, 
 A poorer than himself he would not 
 
 see. 
 
 True priests, he said, and preachers 
 
 of the woi'd, 
 Were only stewards of their sovereign 
 
 Lord; 
 Nothing was theirs; but all the public 
 
 store : 
 Intrusted riches, to relieve the poor. 
 
 The proud he tamed, the penitent 
 
 he cheered ; 
 Nor to rebuke the rich offender 
 
 feared ; 
 His preaching much, but more his 
 
 practice wrought 
 (A living sermon of the truths he 
 
 taught); 
 For this by rules severe his life he 
 
 squared, 
 That all might see the doctrines 
 
 which they heard. 
 For priests, he said, are patterns for 
 
 the rest; 
 (The gold of heaven, who bear the 
 
 God impressed); 
 But when the precious coin is kept 
 
 unclean. 
 The sovereign's image is no longer 
 
 seen. 
 If they be foul on which the people 
 
 trust, 
 Well may the baser brass contract a 
 
 rust. 
 
 [^From Absalom and AchitopheL] 
 THE WIT. 
 
 A FIERY soul, which, working out its 
 
 way, 
 Fretted the pigmy body to decay, 
 And o'er-informed the tenement of 
 
 clay. 
 A daring pilot in extremity; 
 Pleased with the danger, when the 
 
 waves went high 
 He sought the storms ; but, for a calm 
 
 unfit, 
 Would steer too nigh the sands to 
 
 boast his wit. 
 Great wits are sure to madness near 
 
 allied. 
 And thin partitions do their bounds 
 
 divide. 
 
208 
 
 D UNBA R — EAS TMA N. 
 
 William Dunbar. 
 
 ALL EARTHLY JOY RETURNS IX PAIN. 
 
 Have mind that age aye follows 
 
 youth ; 
 Death follows life with gaping mouth, 
 Devouring fruit and flowering grain 
 All earthly joy returns in pain. 
 
 Came never yet May so fresh and 
 
 green, 
 But January came as wud and keen ; 
 
 Was never such drout but ance came 
 
 rain; 
 All earthly joy returns in pain, 
 
 Since earthly joy abydis never. 
 Work for the joy that lasts for- 
 ever; 
 For other joy is all but vain : 
 All earthly joy returns in jxiin. 
 
 Charles Gamage Eastman. 
 
 A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 'Tis a fearful night in the winter 
 time, 
 As cold as it ever can be; 
 The roar of the blast is heard like 
 the chime 
 Of the waves of an angry sea. 
 The moon is full, but her silver light 
 The storm dashes out with its wings 
 
 to-night; 
 And over the sky from south to north. 
 Not a star is seen as the wind comes 
 forth 
 In the strength of a mighty glee. 
 
 All day had the snow come down — 
 all day 
 As it never came down before ; 
 And over the hills, at sunset, lay 
 
 Some two or three feet, or more ; 
 The fence was lost, and the wall of 
 
 * stone; 
 The windows blocked and the well- 
 curbs gone; 
 The haystack had grown to a moun- 
 tain lift, 
 And the wood-pile looked like a 
 monster drift, 
 As it lay by the farmer's door. 
 
 The night sets in on a world of snow, 
 While the air grows sharp and chill. 
 
 And the warning roar of a fearful 
 blow 
 Is heard on the distant hill; 
 
 And the Norther, see! on the moun- 
 tain peak 
 
 In his breath how the old trees writhe 
 and shriek! 
 
 He shouts on the plain, ho ho! ho ho! 
 
 He drives from his nostrils the blind- 
 ing snow, 
 And growls with a savage will. 
 
 Such a night as this to be found 
 
 abroad, 
 
 In the drifts and the freezing air, 
 
 Lies a shivering dog, in the field, by 
 
 the road. 
 
 With the snow in his shaggy hair. 
 
 He shuts his eyes to the wind and 
 
 growls ; 
 He lifts his head, and moans and 
 howls; I sleet, 
 
 Then crouching low, from the cutting 
 His nose is pressed on his quivering 
 feet — 
 Pray what does the dog do there ? 
 
 A farmer came from the village plain, 
 But he lost the travelled way ; 
 
 And for hom-s he trod with might 
 and main 
 A path for his horse and sleigh; 
 
ELIOT. 
 
 200 
 
 But colder still the cold winds blew, 
 And deeper still the deep drifts 
 
 grew, 
 And his mare, a beautiful Morgan 
 
 brown, 
 At last in her struggles floundered 
 
 down, 
 Where a log in a hollow lay. 
 
 In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied 
 snort, 
 She plunged in the drifting snow. 
 While her master urged, till his 
 breath grew short. 
 With a word and a gentle blow; 
 But the snow was deep, and the tugs 
 
 were tight; 
 His hands were numb and had lost 
 
 their might: 
 So he wallowed back to his half-filled 
 
 sleigh. 
 And strave to shelter himself till day. 
 With his coat and butfalo. 
 
 II(^ has given the last faint jerk of 
 
 the rein, 
 To rouse up his dying steed ; 
 And the poor dog howls to the blast 
 
 in vain 
 For help in his master's need. 
 For awhile he strives with a wistful 
 
 cry 
 To catch a glance from his drowsy 
 
 eye, 
 
 And wags his tail when the rude winds 
 
 flap 
 The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, 
 And whines that he takes no heed. 
 
 The wind goes down and the storm 
 is o'er — 
 'Tis the hour of midnight past; 
 The old trees writhe and bend no more 
 
 In the whirl of the rushing blast. 
 The silent moon with her peaceful 
 
 light 
 Looks down on the hills with snow 
 
 all white. 
 And the giant shadow of Camel's 
 Hump, I stump. 
 
 The blasted pine and the ghostly 
 Afar on the plain are cast. 
 
 But cold and dead by the hidden log 
 Are they who came from the town : 
 
 The man in his sleigh, and his faith- 
 ful dog. 
 And his beautiful Morgan brown , 
 
 In the wide sno\\-desert, far and 
 grand, 
 
 With his cap on his head and the 
 reins in his hand. 
 
 The dog with his nose on his master's 
 feet. 
 
 And the mare half seen through the 
 crusted sleet. 
 Where she lay when she floundered 
 down. 
 
 George Eliot (Marian Evans Cross) 
 
 MAY I JOIX rilE CHOIR 
 INVISIBLE. 
 
 O MAY I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of these immortal dead who live 
 
 again 
 In minds made better by their pres- 
 ence; live 
 In pulses stirred to generosity, 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 Of miserable aims that end with 
 
 self. 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the 
 night like stars, 
 
 And with their mild persistence urge 
 
 men's minds 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To make undying music ii\the world. 
 Breathing a beauteous order, that 
 
 controls 
 With growing sway the growing life 
 
 of man. 
 So we inherit that sweet purity 
 For Avhich we struggled, failed and 
 
 agonized 
 With widening retrospect that bre.i 
 
 despair. 
 
m. 
 
 210 
 
 ELLIOT. 
 
 Kebellious flesh that would not be 
 
 subdueil, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its 
 
 child, [solved; 
 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick dis- 
 Its discords quenched by meeting 
 
 harmonies. 
 Die in the laige and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, l)etter, truer self, 
 That sobbed religiously in yearning 
 
 song, 
 That watched to ease the burden of 
 
 the world. 
 Laboriously tracing what must be, 
 And what may yet be better, — saw 
 
 within 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
 And shaped it forth before the mul- 
 titude. 
 Divinely human, raising worship so 
 To higher reverence more mixed 
 
 with love, — [Time 
 
 That better self shall live till htunan 
 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human 
 
 sky 
 Be gathered like a scroll within the 
 
 tomb. 
 Unread forever. 
 
 This is life to come, 
 Which martyred men have made 
 
 more glorious 
 For us, who strive to follow. 
 
 May I reach 
 That purest heaven, — be to other 
 
 souls 
 The cup of strength in some great 
 
 agony, 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pm"e 
 
 love. 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
 Be the sweet presence of a good dif- 
 fused. 
 And in diffusion ever more intense! 
 So shall I join the choir invisible, 
 Whose nuisic is the gladness of the 
 
 woi'ld. 
 
 Jane Elliot. 
 
 THE FLO WE US OF THE FOHEST. 
 
 I've heard the lilting at our ewe-milking. 
 
 Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day; 
 But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning — 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, 
 The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; 
 
 Nae daftin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing. 
 Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away. 
 
 In liairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, 
 The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray ; 
 
 At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roammg, 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; 
 
 But ilk ane sits drearie. lamenting her dearie — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the border 
 The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; 
 
 The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, 
 The ])rime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 
 
^e$ 
 
 ELJAOTT. 
 
 211 
 
 W^e hear iiae mair lilting at our ewe-milking, 
 Women and bairns are heartless and wae; 
 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — 
 Til'' Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott. 
 
 POOR AXDREW. 
 
 TnK loving poor! — So envy calls 
 
 The ever-toiling poor: 
 But oh! I choke, my heart grows 
 faint, 
 
 When I approach my door! 
 Behind it there are living things. 
 
 Whose silent frontlets say 
 They'd rather see me out than in. — 
 
 Feet foremost borne away ! 
 My heart grows sick when home I 
 come, — 
 
 May God the thought forgive! 
 If 'twere not for my dog and cat. 
 
 I think I could not live. 
 
 My dog and cat, when I come home. 
 
 Run out to welcome me, — 
 She mewing, Avith her tail on end. 
 
 While wagging his comes he. 
 They listen for my homeward steps. 
 
 My smothered sob they hear, 
 When down my heart sinks, deathly 
 
 down, 
 ■ Because my home is near. 
 My heart grows faint when home I 
 come, — 
 May God the thought forgive ! 
 If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 
 I think I could not live. 
 
 I'd rather be a happy bird, 
 
 Tlian, scorned and loathed, a king; 
 But man should live while for him 
 lives 
 
 The meanest loving thing. 
 Thou busy bee ! how canst thou choose 
 
 So far and wide to roam ? 
 O blessed bee! thy glad wings say 
 
 Thou hast a happy home ! 
 But I, when I come home, — O God! 
 
 Wilt thou the thought forgive ? 
 If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 
 
 I think I could not live. 
 
 They do not 
 
 Why come they not 
 come 
 
 My breaking heart to meet! 
 A heavier darkness on me falls, — 
 
 1 cannot lift my feet. 
 Oh, yes. they come! — they never fail 
 
 To listen for my sighs ; 
 My poor heart brightens when it 
 meets 
 
 The sunshine of their eyes. 
 Again they come to meet me. — God ! 
 
 Wilt thou the thought foi-give ? 
 If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 
 
 I think I could not live. 
 
 This heart is like a churchyard stone; 
 
 My home is comfort's grave; 
 My playful cat and honest dog 
 
 Are all the friends 1 have; 
 And yet my house is filled with 
 friends, — 
 
 But foes they seem, and are. 
 AVhat makes them hostile? Igno- 
 hance; 
 
 Then let me not despair. 
 But oh ! I sigh when home I come,— 
 
 May God the thought forgive ! 
 If 'twere not for my dog and cat, 
 
 I think I could not live. 
 
 THE PUESS. 
 
 God sail,— " Let there be light! " 
 Grim darkness felt his might. 
 And fled away: 
 Then startled seas and mountains 
 
 cold 
 Shone forth, all bright in blue and 
 gold, 
 And cried, — "'Tis day! 'tis day!" 
 " Hail, holy light!" exclaimed 
 The thunderous cloud that flamed 
 O'er daisies white; 
 
212 
 
 ELLIOTT. 
 
 And lo ! the rose, in crimson dressed, 
 Leaned sweetly on tlie lily's breast; 
 And, blushing, niurnmred, — 
 "Light!" 
 Then was tlie skylark born ; 
 Then rose the eniljattled corn ; 
 Then floods of praise 
 Flowed o'er the sunny hills of noon; 
 And then, in stillest night, the moon 
 Poured forth her pensive lays. 
 Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad! 
 Lo, trees and flowers, all clad 
 In glory, bloom! 
 And shall the mortal sons of God 
 Be senseless as the trodden clod, 
 And darker than the tomb ? 
 No, by the mind of man! 
 By the swart artisan ! 
 
 By God, our sire! 
 Our souls have holy Hght within; 
 And every form of grief and sin 
 Shall see and feel its fire. 
 By earth, and hell, and heaven. 
 The shroud of souls is riven ! 
 Mind, mind alone 
 Is light, and hope, and life, and power ! 
 Earth's deepest night, from this 
 blessed hour, 
 The night of nnnds, is gone ! 
 " The Press! " all lands shall sing; 
 The Press, the Press we bring. 
 All lands to bless : 
 Oh, pallid Want! Oh, Labor stark! 
 Beliold we bring the second ark I 
 
 The Press ! the Press ! the Press ! 
 
 THE POET'S PRAYER. 
 
 Almighty Father! let thv lowly 
 child. 
 Strong in his love of truth, be 
 wisely bold, — 
 A patriot bard, by sycophants reviled, 
 Let him live usefully, and not die 
 old ! 
 Let poor men's children, pleased to 
 read his lays. 
 Love, for his sake, the scenes where 
 he hath been, 
 
 And when he ends his pilgrimage of 
 
 days. 
 Let him be buried where the grass 
 is green. 
 Where daisies, blooming earliest, 
 linger late 
 To hear the bee his busy note pro- 
 long; 
 There let him slumber, and in peace 
 await 
 The dawning morn, far from the 
 sensual throng. 
 Who scorn the windflower's blush, 
 the redbreast's lonely song.' 
 
 to 
 
 XOT FOR NAUGHT. 
 
 Do and suffer naught in vain; 
 
 Let no trifle trifling be! 
 If the salt of life is pain. 
 
 Let even wrongs bring good 
 thee ; 
 Good to others few or many, — 
 Good to all, or good to any. 
 
 If men curse thee, plant their lies 
 Where for truth they best may 
 grow; 
 
 Let the railers make thee wise. 
 Preaching peace where'er thou go! 
 
 God no useless plant hath i)lanted, 
 
 Evil — wisely used — is wanted. 
 
 If the nation-feeding corn 
 Thriveth under iced snow; 
 
 If the small bird on the tliorn 
 Useth well its guarded sloe. — 
 
 Bid thy cares thy comforts double. 
 
 Gather fruit from thorns of trouble. 
 
 See the rivers ! how they run. 
 Strong in gloom, and strong in 
 light! 
 Like the never-wearied sun, 
 Through the day and through the 
 night. 
 Each along his path of duty, 
 Turning coldness into beauty. 
 
EMERSON. 
 
 213 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 O TENDEELY the haughty day 
 Fills his blue urn with tire; 
 
 One morn is in the mighty heaven, 
 And one in our desire. 
 
 The cannon booms from town to 
 town, 
 Our pulses are not less. 
 The joy-bells chime their tidings 
 tlown, 
 Which children's voices bless. 
 
 For he that flung the broad blue fold 
 O'er mantling land and sea. 
 
 One third part of the sky unrolled 
 For the banner of the free. 
 
 The men are ripe of Saxon kind 
 To build an equal state, — 
 
 To take the statute from the mind. 
 And make of duty fate. 
 
 United States! the ages plead, — 
 Present and past in under-song, — 
 
 Go put your creed into your deed. 
 Nor speak with double tongue. 
 
 For sea and land don't understand. 
 
 Nor skies without a frown 
 See rights for which the one hand 
 fights 
 
 By the other cloven down. 
 
 Be just at home ; then write your scroll 
 
 Of honor o'er the sea, 
 And bid the broad Atlantic roll 
 
 A ferry of the free. 
 
 And, henceforth, there shall be no 
 chain, 
 Save underneath the sea 
 The wires shall murmur through the 
 main 
 Sweet songs of Liberty. 
 
 The conscious stars accord above. 
 
 The waters wild below. 
 And under, through the cable wove. 
 
 Her fiery errands go. 
 
 For he that worketh high and wise, 
 
 Nor pauses in his plan. 
 Will take the sun out of the skies 
 
 Ere freedom out of man. 
 
 THE PUOBLEM. 
 
 I LIKE a church; I like a cowl; 
 1 love a prophet of the soul; 
 And on my heart monastic aisles 
 Fall like sweet strains, or pensive 
 
 smiles ; 
 Yet not for all his faith can see 
 AVould 1 that cowleil churchman be. 
 
 AVhy should the vest on him allure. 
 Which 1 coidd not on me endure ? 
 
 Not from a vain or shallow thought 
 His awful Jove young Phidias 
 
 brought. 
 Never from lips of cunning, fell 
 The thrilling Delphic oracTe; 
 Out from the heart of nature rolled 
 The burdens of the Bible old ; 
 The litanies of nations came. 
 Like the volcano's tongue of flame. 
 Up from the burning core below, — 
 The canticles of love and woe ; 
 The hand that rounded Peter's dome. 
 And groined the aisles of Christian 
 
 Rome, 
 Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 
 Himself from God he could not free : 
 He builded better than he knew; — 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew. 
 
 Kuowest thou what wove yon wood- 
 bird's nest 
 Of leaves, and feathers from her 
 
 breast ? 
 Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
 Painting with morn each aniuial cell ? 
 Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
 To her old leaves new myriads ? 
 Such and so grew these holy piles. 
 Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
 Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
 As the l)est gem upon her zone; 
 
214 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 And morning opes with liaste lier lids, 
 To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
 O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 
 As on its friends, with kindred eye; 
 For out of thought's interior sphere. 
 These wonders rose to upper air; 
 And nature gladly gave them place. 
 Adopted them into her race. 
 And granted them an equal date 
 Witli Andes and with Ararat. 
 
 Tliese temples grew as grows the 
 
 grass ; 
 Art might obey, but not surpass. 
 The passive Master lent his hand 
 To the vast soul that o'er him 
 
 planned; 
 And the same power that reared the 
 
 shrine 
 Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
 Ever the fiery Pentecost 
 Girds with one tlanie the countless 
 
 host. 
 Trances the heart through chanting 
 
 choirs, 
 xVnd through the priest the mind in- 
 spires. 
 The word imto the prophet spoken 
 Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
 The word by seers or sibyls tohl, 
 In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, 
 Still floats upon the morning wind, 
 Still whispers to the willing mind. 
 One accent of the Holy Ghost 
 The heedless world hath never lost. 
 I know what say the fathers wise, — 
 The Book itself before me lies, 
 Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
 And he who blent both in his line. 
 The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
 Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
 His words are nuisic in my ear, 
 1 see his cowled portrait dear; 
 And yet, for all his faith could see, 
 I would not the good bishop be. 
 
 THE RHODOnA. 
 
 In May, when sea-winds pierced our 
 
 solitudes, 
 I found the fresh Rhodora In the 
 
 woods. 
 
 Spreading its leafless blooms in a 
 
 damp nook, 
 To please the desert and the sluggish 
 
 brook. 
 The purple petals, fallen in the pool. 
 Made the black water with their 
 
 beauty gay ; 
 Here might the red-bird come his 
 
 plumes to cool, 
 And court the flower that cheapens 
 
 his array. 
 Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 
 This charm is wasted on the earth 
 
 and sky, 
 Dear, tell them, that if eyes were 
 
 made for seeing, 
 Then beauty is its own excuse for 
 
 being: 
 Why thou wert there, oh. rival of the 
 
 rose ! 
 I never thought to ask, 1 never knew : 
 But in my simple ignorance, suppose 
 The selfsame power that brought nie 
 
 there, brought you. 
 
 THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Bi ui.v, dozing humble-bee. 
 Where thou art is clime for me. 
 Let them sail for Porto Ricjue, 
 Far-off heats through seas to seek; 
 I will follow thee alone. 
 Thou animated torrid-zone ! 
 Zigzag steerer, desert cheei'er. 
 Let me chase thy waving lines: 
 Keep me nearer, me thy liearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Insect lover of the sun, 
 Joy of thy dominion! 
 .Sailor of the atmosphere; 
 SwimuKM- through tlie waves of air; 
 Voyager of light and noon; 
 Epicurean of June; 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 Within earshot of thy hum, — 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 
 When the south-wind, in May days, 
 With a net of shining haze 
 Silvers the horizon wall. 
 And, with softness touching all. 
 
THE CONCORD BRIDGE. 
 
 Page 215. 
 
EMERSON. 
 
 215 
 
 Tints the human countenance 
 With a color of romance. 
 And, infusing subtle iieats, 
 Turns the sod to violets, 
 Thou, in sunny solitudes, 
 Rover of tlie underwoods, 
 Tlie green silence dost displace 
 With tliy mellow, breezy bass. 
 
 Hot midsummer's petted crone, 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
 Tells of countless sunny hours. 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers : 
 Of gulfs of sweetness Avithout boiuid 
 In Indian wildernesses found; 
 Of Syrian peace, innnortal leisure. 
 Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 
 
 Aught imsavory or unclean 
 Hath my insect never seen; 
 But violets and bilberry l)ells, 
 Maple-sap, and daffodils, 
 Grass witli green flag lialf-mast higb, 
 Succory to match the sky, 
 Columbine with horn of honey. 
 Scented fern and agrimony, 
 Clover, catchfly, adder' s-tongue. 
 And brier-roses, dwelt among; 
 All beside was unknown waste, 
 All was picture as lie passed. 
 
 Wiser far than luunan seer. 
 Yellow-breeclied philosopher I 
 Seeing only what is fair. 
 Sipping only wliat is sweet. 
 Thou dost mock at fate and care. 
 Leave the cliaff, and take the wlieat. 
 When the fierce nortliwestern blast 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
 Thou already slumberest deep; 
 Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
 Want and woe, which torture us. 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
 
 CONCORD FIGHT. 
 
 By the rude bridge tliat arched the 
 flood, 
 Tlieir flag to April' s breeze vmfurled , 
 Here once tlie embattled farmers 
 stood. 
 And fired the shot heard round tlie 
 world. 
 
 The foe long since in silence slept; 
 
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
 And time the ruined bridge has swept 
 
 Down the dark stream wliicli sea- 
 ward creeps. 
 
 On this green bank, by tliis soft 
 stream. 
 We set to-day a votive stone; 
 That memory may tlieir deed redeem, 
 Wlien, like our sires, our sons are 
 gone. 
 
 Spirit, that made tliose heroes dare 
 To die, and leave their children 
 free. 
 Bid time and nature gently spare 
 The shaft we raise to them and 
 tliee. 
 
 FOnnKAIlANCE. 
 
 Hast thou named all tlie birds with- 
 out a gun ? 
 
 Loved tlie wood-rose, and left it on 
 its stalk ? 
 
 At rich men's tables eaten bread and 
 pulse ? 
 
 Unarmed, faced danger with a lieart 
 of trust '? 
 
 And loved so well a higli behavior, 
 
 In man or maid, that tliou from 
 speech refrained, 
 
 Nobility more nobly to repay ? 
 
 Oh. be my friend, "and teach me to 
 be thine ! 
 
216 
 
 FABER. 
 
 Frederic William Faber. 
 
 THE lUdHT MUST WIS. 
 
 Oh, it is hard to work for God, 
 
 To rise and talce liis part 
 Upon tliis battle-field of earth, 
 
 And not sometimes lose heart ! 
 
 He hides himself so wondrously, 
 As though there A\ere no God; 
 
 He is least seen when all the powers 
 Of ill are most abroad. 
 
 Or he deserts us at the hour 
 
 The fight is all but lost; 
 And seems to leave us to ourselves 
 
 Just when we need him most. 
 
 Ill masters good, good seems to change 
 
 To ill with greatest ease; 
 And, worst of all, the good with good 
 
 Is at cross-purposes. 
 
 Ah ! God is other than we think : 
 
 His ways are far above, 
 Far beyond reason's height, and 
 reached 
 
 Only by childlike love. 
 
 Workman of God ! oh, lose not heart, 
 But learn what God is like; 
 
 And in the darkest battle-field 
 Thou shalt know M'here to strike. 
 
 Thrice blest is he to whom is given 
 
 The instinct that can tell 
 That God is on the field when he 
 
 Is most invisible. 
 
 Blest, too, is he who can divine 
 Where real right doth lie, 
 
 And dares to take the side 
 seems 
 Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 
 
 that 
 
 For right is right, since God is God; 
 
 And right the day must win; 
 To doubt wouhl be disloyalty, 
 
 To falter would be sin! 
 
 HARSH JUDGMENTS. 
 
 O God! whose thoughts are brightest 
 light. 
 
 Whose love runs always clear, 
 To whose kind wistlom, sinning souls. 
 
 Amid their sins, ai'e dear, — 
 
 Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heart 
 
 AVith charity like thine. 
 Till self shall be the only si)Ot 
 
 On earth that does not shine. 
 
 Hard-heartedness dwells not with 
 souls 
 Bound whom thine arms are drawn ; 
 And dai-k thoughts fade away in 
 grace, 
 Like cloud-spots in the dawn. 
 
 Time was when I believed that wi ong 
 
 In others to detect 
 Was part of genius, and a gift 
 
 To cherish, not reject. 
 
 Now, better taught by thee, O Lord ! 
 
 This truth dawns on my mind. 
 The best effect of heavenly light 
 
 Is earth's false eyes to blind. 
 
 He whom no praise can reach is aye 
 Men's least attempts approving; 
 
 Whom justice makes all-merciful, 
 Omniscience makes all-loving. 
 
 When we ourselves least kindly are. 
 
 We deem the world unkind : 
 Dark hearts, in flowers where honey 
 lies. 
 
 Only the poison find. 
 
 How Thou canst think so w ell of us, 
 
 Yet be the God Thou art, 
 Is darkness to my intellect, 
 
 But sunshine to my heart. 
 
 Yet habits linger in the soul; 
 
 More grace, O Lord ! more grace; 
 More sweetness from thy loving heart, 
 
 More sunshine from tbv face! 
 
FALCONER. 
 
 21- 
 
 LOW SPIRITS. 
 
 Fever and fret and aimless stir 
 
 And disappointed strife, 
 All chafing, unsuccessful things. 
 
 Make up the sum of life. 
 
 Love adds anxiety to toil, 
 And sameness doubles cares. 
 
 While one unbroken chain of work 
 The flagging temper wears. 
 
 The light and air are dulled with 
 smoke ; 
 
 The streets resound with noise; 
 And the soul sinks to see its peers 
 
 Chasing their joyless joj's. 
 
 Voices are round me; smiles are 
 near; 
 
 Kind welcomes to be had ; 
 And yet my spirit is alone, 
 
 Fretful, outworn, and sad. 
 
 A weary actor, I would fain 
 
 Be quit of my long part; 
 The burden of unquiet life 
 
 Lies heg,vy on my heart. 
 
 Sweet thought of God! now do thy 
 work. 
 As thou hast done before ; 
 Wake up, and tears will wake with 
 thee. 
 And the dull mood be o'er. 
 
 The very thinking of the thought 
 Without or praise or prayer, 
 
 Gives light to know and life to do. 
 And marvellous strength to bear. 
 
 Oh, there is music in that thought, 
 
 L^nto a heait unstrung. 
 Like sweet bells at the evening time, 
 
 Most musically rung. 
 
 'Tis not His justice or His power. 
 
 Beauty or blest abode. 
 But the mere unexpanded thought 
 
 Of the eternal God. 
 
 It is not of His wondrous works, 
 
 Not even that He is ; 
 Words fail it, but it is a thought 
 
 Which by itself is bliss. 
 
 Sweet thought, lie closer to my heart! 
 
 Thus I may feel thee near. 
 As one who for his weapon feels 
 
 In some nocturnal fear. 
 
 Mostly in hours of gloom, thou 
 com'st. 
 
 When sadness makes us loviy. 
 As though thou wert the echo sweet 
 
 Of humble melancholy. 
 
 I bless Thee, Lord, for this kind 
 check 
 
 To spirits over-free ! 
 And for all things that make me feel 
 
 More helpless need of Thee ! 
 
 William Falconer. 
 
 iFrom The Shipwreck.] 
 WliECKED IN THE TEMPEST. 
 
 AxD noAv, while winged with ruin 
 from on high. 
 
 Through the rent cloud the ragged 
 lightnings fly, 
 
 A flash quick glancing on the neiwes 
 of light. 
 
 Struck the pale helmsman witli eter- 
 nal night: 
 
 Quick to the abandoned wheel Arion 
 came. 
 
 The ship's tempestuous sallies to re- 
 claim. 
 
 Amazed he saw her, o'er the sound- 
 ing foam 
 
 Upborne, to right and left distracted 
 roam. 
 
 So gazed young Phaeton, with pale 
 dismay. 
 
 When, mounted on the flaming car 
 of (lav. 
 
^^^i 
 
 218 
 
 FALCONER. 
 
 With rash and impious hand the 
 
 stripUng tried 
 The iniuiortal coursers of the sun to 
 
 guide. 
 
 With mournful look the seamen 
 eyed the strand. 
 
 Where death's inexorable jaws ex- 
 pand ; 
 
 Swift from their minds elapsed all 
 dangers past, 
 
 As, dumb with terror, they beheld 
 the last. 
 
 And now, lashed on by destiny se- 
 vere, 
 
 AVith horror fraught the dreadful 
 scene drew near! 
 
 The ship hangs hovering on the verge 
 of death. 
 
 Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers 
 roar beneath ! 
 
 In vain, alas! the sacred shades of 
 yore. 
 
 Would arm the mind with philosophic 
 lore; [breath, 
 
 In vain they'd teach us, at the latest 
 
 To smile serene amid the pangs of 
 death. 
 
 Even Zeno's self, and Epictetus old. 
 
 This fell abyss had shuddered to be- 
 hold.' 
 
 Had Socrates, for godlike virtue 
 famed, 
 
 And wisest of the sons of men pro- 
 claimed, 
 
 Beheld this scene of frenzy and dis- 
 tress. 
 
 His soul had trembled to its last re- 
 cess! 
 
 O yet confirm my heart, ye powers 
 above. 
 
 This last tremendous shock of fate 
 to prove ! 
 
 The tottering frame of reason yet 
 sustain ! 
 
 Nor let this total ruin whirl my brain ! 
 
 In vain the cords and axes were pre- 
 pared. 
 
 For now the audacious seas insult 
 the yard ; 
 
 High o'er the ship they throw a hor- 
 rid shade, 
 
 And o'erher burst, in terrible cascade. 
 
 Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she 
 
 flies. 
 Her shattered top half buried in the 
 
 skies, 
 Then headlong plunging thunders on 
 
 the ground. 
 Earth groans, air trembles, and the 
 
 deeps resound ! 
 Her giant bulk the dread concussion 
 
 feels, 
 And quivering with the wound, in 
 
 torment reels; 
 
 Again she plunges; hark! a second 
 shock 
 
 Tears her strong bottom on the mar- 
 ble rock ! 
 
 Down on the vale of death, with dis- 
 mal cries. 
 
 The fated victims shuddering roll 
 their eyes 
 
 In wild despair; while yet another 
 stroke. 
 
 With deep convulsion, rends the solid 
 oak: 
 
 Till, like the mine, in whose infernal 
 cell 
 
 The lurking demons of destruction 
 dwell, 
 
 At length asunder torn her frame 
 divides, 
 
 And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the 
 tides. 
 
 [From The Shipu^reck:] 
 A SUiVSET PICTURE. 
 
 The sun's bright orb, declining all 
 serene, 
 
 Now glanced obliquely o'er the wood- 
 land scene; 
 
 Creation smiles around ; on every 
 spray 
 
 The warbling birds exalt their even- 
 ing lay ; 
 
 Blithe skipping o"er yon hill, the 
 fleecy train 
 
 Join the deep chorus of the lowing 
 plain; 
 
 The golden lime and orange there 
 were seen 
 
On fragrant branches of perpetual 
 
 green; 
 The crystal streams that velvet mead- 
 ows lave, 
 To the green ocean roll with chiding 
 
 wave. 
 The glassy ocean, hushed, forgets to 
 
 roar ; 
 But trembling, murmurs on the sandy 
 
 shore; 
 And, lo! his surface lovely to behold. 
 Glows in the west, a sea of living 
 
 gold! 
 While all above a thousand liveries 
 
 gay 
 The skies with poini) ineffable array. 
 
 Arabian sweets perfume the happy 
 plains; 
 
 Above, beneath, around, enchant- 
 ment reigns 
 
 While glowing Vesper leads the starry 
 train. 
 
 And Night slow draws her veil o'er 
 land and main, 
 
 Emerging clouds the azure east in- 
 vade. 
 
 And wrap the lucid spheres in grad- 
 ual shade; 
 
 While yet the songsters of the vocal 
 grove 
 
 With dying numbers tune the soul to 
 love. 
 
 Edgar Fawcett. 
 
 IDEALS. 
 
 O SciENCK, whose footsteps wander. 
 
 Audacious and unafraid, 
 Where the mysteries that men pon- 
 der 
 Lie folded in awful shade, 
 Though you bring us, with calm defi- 
 ance, 
 Dear gifts from the bourns you 
 wing, 
 There is yet, O undaunted Science, 
 One gift that you do not bring ! 
 
 Shall you conquer the last restriction 
 
 That conceals it from you now. 
 And come back with its benediction 
 
 Like an aureole on your brow ? 
 Shall you fly to us, roamer daring. 
 
 Past barriers of time and space. 
 And return from your mission bear- 
 ing 
 
 The light of God on your face ? 
 
 We know not, but still can treasure. 
 
 In the yearnings of our suspense, 
 Consolation we may not measure 
 
 By the certitudes of Sense. 
 For Life, as we long and question. 
 
 Seems to si)eak, while it hurries by. 
 Through undertones of suggestion 
 
 Immortality's deep reply. 
 
 To ears that await its token 
 
 Perpetually it strays. 
 Indeterminate, fitful, broken. 
 
 By the discords of our days. 
 It pierces the grim disasters 
 
 Of clamorous human Hate, 
 And its influence overmasters 
 
 All the Ironies of Fate. 
 
 The icy laugh of the scorner 
 
 Cannot strike its echoes mute; 
 It cleaves the moan of the mourner 
 
 Like a clear leolian lute; 
 At its tone less clear and savage 
 
 Gro^^■s the anguish of f areweU tears, 
 And its melody haunts the ravage 
 
 Of the desecrating years. 
 
 Philosophy builds, and spares not 
 
 Her firm, laborious power. 
 But her lordly edifice wears not 
 
 Its last aerial tower. 
 For the quarries of Keason fail her 
 
 Ere the structure's perfect scope. 
 And the stone that would now avail 
 her [hope. 
 
 Must be hewn from heights of 
 
 But Art, at her noblest glory. 
 Can seem, to her lovers fond, 
 
 As divinely admonitory 
 Of infinitudes beyond. 
 
 mm 
 
•2-20 
 
 FAWCETT. 
 
 She can beam upon Earth's abase- 
 ments 
 
 Like a splendor flung down sublime 
 Through vague yet exalted casements 
 
 From eternity into time. 
 
 On the canvas of some great painter 
 
 We may trace, in its varied flame, 
 Now leaping aloft, now fainter, 
 
 As the mood uplifts the aim, 
 That impulse by whose rare presence 
 
 His venturing brush has drawn 
 Its hues from the efflorescence 
 
 Of a far Elysian dawn. 
 
 An impassioned watcher gazes 
 
 Where the faultless curves combine 
 That sculpture's mightier phases 
 
 Imperially enshrine. 
 And he feels that by strange election 
 
 The artificer's genius wrought 
 From the marble a pale perfection 
 
 That is paramount over thought. 
 
 So at music entranced we wonder, 
 
 If its cliarm the spii'it seeks, 
 When with mellow voluminous thun- 
 der 
 
 A sovereign maestio speaks. 
 Till it seems that by ghostly aidance 
 
 Upraised above lesser throngs, 
 He has caught from the stars their 
 cadence 
 
 And woven the wind into songs. 
 
 More than all, if the stately brilliance 
 
 Of a poet's rapture rise, 
 Like a fountain wliose full resilience 
 
 Is lovely against fair skies. 
 Are we thrilled with a dream un- 
 bounded 
 
 Of deeps by no vision scanned. 
 That conjecture has never sounded 
 
 And conception has never spanned. 
 
 So the harvest that knowledge misses, 
 
 Intuition seems to reap ; 
 One pauses before the abysses 
 
 That one will delight to leap. 
 One balks the ruminant sages. 
 
 And one bids the world aspire. 
 While the slow processional ages 
 
 Irreversibly retire. 
 
 WOUNDS. 
 
 The night-wind sweeps its viewless 
 lyre, 
 
 And o'er dim lands, at pastoral rest, 
 A single star's white heart of fire 
 
 Is throbbing in the amber west. 
 
 I track a rivulet, while 1 roam. 
 By banks that copious leafage cools, 
 
 And watclx it roughening into foam, 
 Or deepening into glassy pools. 
 
 And where the shy stream gains a 
 glade 
 
 That willowy thickets overwhelm, 
 I find a cottage in the shade 
 
 Of one higli patriarchal elm. 
 
 Unseen, I mark, well bowered from 
 reach, 
 
 A group tlie sloping lawn displays, 
 And more by gestures than by speech 
 
 I learn their converse' while I gaze. 
 
 In curious band, youth, maid, and 
 dame. 
 About his chair they throng to 
 greet 
 A gaunt old man of crippled frame, 
 Whose crutch leans idle at his feet. 
 
 Girt with meek twilight's peaceful 
 
 breath, [fray, 
 
 They hear of loud, tempestuous 
 
 Of troops mown down like wheat by 
 
 death, 
 
 Of red Antietam's ghastly day. 
 
 He tells of hurts that will not heal; 
 
 Of aches that nerve and sinew fret. 
 Where sting of shot and bite of steel 
 
 Have left their dull mementos yet; 
 
 And touched by pathos, filled with 
 
 praise. 
 His gathered hearers closer press, 
 To pay alike in glance or phrase, 
 Eesponse of pitying tenderness. 
 
 But I, who note their kindly will. 
 Look onward, past the box-edged 
 walk, [still. 
 
 Where stands a woman, grave and 
 Oblivious of their fleeting talk. 
 
FAIVCETT. 
 
 Her listless arms droop either side ; 
 
 In pensive grace her brow is bent; 
 Her slender form leaves half-descried 
 
 A sweet fatigued abandonment. 
 
 And while she lures my musing eye, 
 The mournful reverie of her air 
 
 Speaks to my thought, I know not 
 why, 
 In the stern dialect of despair. 
 
 Lone wistful moods it seems to show 
 Of anguish borne through lagganl 
 years. 
 
 With outward calm, \\ ith secret flow 
 Of unalleviating tears. 
 
 It breathes of duty's daily strife. 
 When jaded effort loathes to strive ; 
 
 Of patience lingering firm, when life 
 Is tired of being yet alive. 
 
 Enthralled by this fair, piteous face, 
 While heaven is purpling overhead, 
 
 No more 1 heed the old soldier trace 
 How sword has cut, or bullet sped. 
 
 I dream of sorrow's noiseless fight. 
 Where no blades ring, no cannon 
 roll, 
 And where the shadowy blows that 
 smite 
 Give bloodless wounds that s:-ar 
 the soul ; 
 
 Of fate unmoved by desperate prayers 
 From those its plunderous wrath 
 lays low; 
 Of bivouacs where the spirit stares 
 At smouldering passion's faded 
 glow; 
 
 And last, of that sad armistice made 
 On the dark field whence hope has 
 fled, 
 
 Ere yet, like some poor ghost unlaid, 
 Pale Memory glides to count her 
 dead. 
 
 THE WOOD-TURTLE. 
 
 Girt with the grove's aerial sigh. 
 In clumsy stupor, deaf as fate, 
 
 Near this coiled, naked root you lie. 
 Imperviously inanimate. 
 
 Between these woodlands where we 
 met. 
 And your grim languor, void of 
 grace. 
 My glance, dumb sylvan anchoret. 
 Mysterious kinsmanship can trace. 
 
 For in your checkered shape are shown 
 The miry black of swamp and bog, 
 
 The tawny brown of lichened stone. 
 The inertness of the tumbled log. 
 
 But when you break this lifeless pause. 
 And from your parted shell out- 
 spread 
 
 A rude array of lumbering claws, 
 A length of lean, dark snaky head, 
 
 I watch from sluggish torpor start 
 These vital signs, uncouth and 
 strange. 
 And mutely murmur to my heart: 
 "Ah me! how lovelier were the 
 change, 
 
 " If yonder tough oak, seamed with 
 
 scars. 
 Could give some white, wild form 
 
 release, 
 With eyes amid whose wistful stars 
 Burned memories of immortal 
 
 Greece!" 
 
222 
 
 FAY — FENNER. 
 
 Anna Maria Fay. 
 
 SLEEP AND DEATH. 
 
 Oft see we in the garish round of 
 day 
 
 A danger-haunted world for our 
 sad feet, 
 
 Or fear we tread along the peopled 
 street 
 
 A homeless path, an inicompan- 
 ioned way. 
 So too the night doth bring its own 
 array 
 
 Of darkling terrors we must singly 
 meet. 
 
 Each soul apart in its unknown re- 
 treat, 
 
 With life a purposeless, uncon- 
 scious play. 
 But though the day discovers us 
 afraid. 
 
 Unsure of some safe hand to be 
 our guide. 
 
 Rest we at night, as if for each 
 were said. 
 
 " He giveth unto His beloved sleep." 
 Nought less than all do we in sleep 
 
 confide, 
 And death but needs of us a trust 
 
 as deep. 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 AViiK.x love is in her eyes. 
 
 What need of Spring for me ? 
 A brighter emerald lies 
 
 On hill and vale and lea. 
 The azure of the skies 
 
 Holds nought so sweet to see, 
 When love is in her eyes. 
 
 What need of Spring for me ? 
 
 Her bloom the rose outvies. 
 The lily dares no plea. 
 
 The violet's glory dies. 
 No flower so sweet can be ; 
 
 When love is in her eyes, 
 What need of Spring for me ? 
 
 Cornelius George Fenner. 
 
 GULF-WEED. 
 
 A WEARY weed, tossed to and fro. 
 
 Drearily drenched in the ocean 
 brine. 
 Soaring high and sinking low, 
 
 Lashed along without will of mine; 
 Sport of the spume of the surging sea; 
 
 Flung on the foam, afar and anear, 
 Mark my manifold mystery, — 
 
 Growth and grace in their place 
 appear. 
 
 1 bear round berries, gray and red, 
 Rootless and rover though I be; 
 My spangled leaves, when nicely 
 spread. 
 
 Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; 
 Corals curious coat me o'er, 
 
 White and hard in apt array ; 
 'Mid the wild waves' rude uproar, 
 
 Gracefully grow I, night and day. 
 
 Hearts there are on the sounding 
 shore. 
 
 Something whispers soft to me. 
 Restless and roaming for evermore. 
 
 Like this weary weed of the sea; 
 Bear they yet on each beating breast 
 
 The eternal type of the wondrous 
 whole : 
 Growth unfolding amidst unrest, 
 
 Grace informing with silent soul. 
 
FIELDS. 
 
 223 
 
 ANNIE Fields. 
 
 TO SAPPHO. 
 
 Daughter of Love ! Out of the flow- 
 ing river, 
 
 Bearing the tide of life upon its bil- 
 low, 
 
 Down to that gulf where love and 
 song together 
 
 Sink and must perish : 
 
 Out of that fatal and resistless cur- 
 rent. 
 
 One little song of thine to thy great 
 mother. 
 
 Treasured upon the heart of earth 
 forever, 
 
 Alone is rescued. 
 
 Yet when spring comes, and weary is 
 the spirit. 
 
 When love is here, but absent is the 
 lover. 
 
 And life is here, and only love is dy- 
 ing? 
 
 Then turn we, longing, 
 
 Singer, to thee ! Through ages unf or- 
 gotteu ; 
 
 Where beats the heart of one who in 
 her loving 
 
 Sang, all for love, and gave herself 
 in singing 
 
 To the sea's bosom. 
 
 [From The Last Contest of JEschylus.] 
 
 YOUNG SOPHOCLES TAKING THE 
 PRIZE FROM AGED ^SCHYLUS. 
 
 But now the games succeeded, then 
 a pause. 
 
 And after came the judges with the 
 scrolls ; 
 
 Two scrolls, not one, as in departed 
 years. 
 
 And this saw none but the youth, 
 Sophocles, 
 
 Who stood with head erect and shin- 
 ing eyes, 
 
 As if the beacon of some promised 
 land 
 
 Caught his strong vision and en- 
 tranced it there. 
 
 Then while the earth made mimicry 
 
 of heaven 
 With stillness, calmly spake the 
 
 mightiest judge: 
 "O yEschylus! The father of our 
 
 song! 
 Athenian master of the tragic lyre 
 Thou the incomparable! Swayer of 
 
 strong hearts! 
 Immortal minstrel of immortal deeds ! 
 The autumn grows apace, and all 
 
 must die; 
 Soon winter comes, and silence. 
 
 ^schylus! 
 After that silence laughs the tuneful 
 
 spring ! 
 Read'st thou our meaning through 
 
 this slender veil 
 Of nature's weaving? Sophocles, 
 
 stand forth! 
 Behold Fame calls thee to her loftiest 
 
 seat. 
 And bids thee wear her crown. Stand 
 
 forth, I say!" 
 Then, like a fawii, the youthful poet 
 
 sprang 
 From the dark thicket of new crowd- 
 ing friends. 
 And stood, a straight, lithe form with 
 
 gentle mien, 
 (/rowned first with light of happiness 
 
 and youth. 
 
 But ^schylus, the old man, bending 
 
 lower 
 Under this new chief weight of all 
 
 the years, 
 Turned from that scene, turned from 
 
 the shouting crowd. 
 Whose every voice wounded his dying 
 
 soul 
 With arrows poison-dipped, and 
 
 walked alone. 
 Forgotten, under plane-trees, by the 
 
 stream. 
 "The last! The last! Have I no more 
 
 to do 
 With this sweet world ! Is the bright 
 
 morning now 
 No longer fraught for me with crowd- 
 ing song ? 
 
Will evening bring no unsought fruit- 
 age home ? 
 Must the days pass and these poor 
 
 lips be dumb, 
 While strewing leaves sing falling 
 
 through the air, 
 And autumn gathers in her richest 
 
 fruit '? 
 Where is my spring departed? Where, 
 
 O gods ! 
 AVithin my spirit still the building 
 
 birds 
 I hear, with voice more tender than 
 
 when leaves 
 Are budding and the happy earth is 
 
 gay- 
 Am I, indeed, grown dumb for ever- 
 more ! 
 Take me. O bark! Take me, thou 
 
 flowing stream! 
 Who knowest nought of death save 
 
 when thy waves 
 Piush to new life upon the ocean's 
 
 breast. 
 Bear thou me singing to the under 
 
 world ! 
 
 [From Soplioclei.] 
 
 AGED SOPHOCLES ADDRESSING THE 
 
 ATHENIANS BEFORE READING HIS 
 
 (ED IPC'S COLONEUy. 
 
 Bowed half with age and half with 
 
 reverence, thus, 
 I, Sophocles, now answer to your 
 
 call; 
 Questioned have I the cause and the 
 
 reason learned. 
 Lo, 1 am here that all the world may 
 
 see 
 These feeble limbs that signal of de- 
 cay! 
 But, know ye, ere the aged oak must 
 
 die. 
 Long after the strong years have 
 
 bent his form, 
 The spring still gently weaves a leafy 
 
 crown, 
 Fresh as of yore to deck his wintry 
 
 head. 
 And now, O people mine, who have 
 
 loved my song, 
 
 Ye shall be judges if the spring have 
 
 brought 
 Late unto me, the aged oak, a crown. 
 Hear yc once more, ere yet the river 
 
 of sleej) 
 Bear me away far on its darkening 
 
 tide. 
 The music breathed upon me fi-om 
 
 these fields. 
 If to your ears, alas! the shattered 
 
 strings 
 No longer sing, but breathe a discord 
 
 harsh, 
 I will return and draw this mantle 
 
 close 
 About my head and lay me down to 
 
 die. 
 But if ye hear the wonted spirit call, 
 Framing the natural song that fills 
 
 this world 
 To a diviner form, then shall ye all 
 
 believe 
 The love I bear to those most near to 
 
 me 
 Is living still, and living cannot 
 
 wrong; 
 To me, it seems, the love I bear to 
 
 thee, 
 Athens, blooms fresh as violets in yon 
 
 wood, 
 Making new spring within this aged 
 
 breast. 
 
 AT THE FORGE. 
 
 I AM Ilephaistos, and forever here 
 Stand at the forge and labor, while I 
 
 dream 
 Of those who labor not and are not 
 
 lame. 
 I hear the early and the late birds 
 
 call, 
 Hear winter whisper to the coming 
 
 s])ring. 
 And watch the feet of summer danc- 
 ing light 
 For joy across the bosom of the earth. 
 Labor endures, but all of these must 
 
 pass ! 
 And ye who love them best, nor are 
 
 condemned 
 
FIELDS. 
 
 225 
 
 To beat the anvil through the sum- 
 mer day, 
 May learn the secret of their sudden 
 
 flight; 
 No mortal tongue may whisper wliere 
 
 they hide, 
 But to her love, half nestled in the 
 
 grass. 
 Earth lias been known to whisper low 
 
 yet clear 
 Strange consolation for the wintry 
 
 days. 
 Oh, listen then, ye singers! learn and 
 
 tell 
 • Those who must labor by the dusty 
 
 way! 
 
 PASSAGE FROM THE PRELUDE. 
 
 YOUTH of the world, 
 Tliou wert sweet ! 
 
 In thy bud 
 
 Slept nor canker nor pain; 
 In ihe blood 
 
 Of thy graije was no frost and n( 
 rain; 
 
 1 love thee! I follow thy feet ! 
 
 The youth of my heart, 
 
 And the deathless fire 
 
 Leap to embrace thee : 
 
 And nlgher, and nigher, 
 
 Through tlie darkness of grief and 
 
 the smart. 
 Thy form do I see. 
 
 But the tremulous hand of the years 
 Has brought me a friend. 
 Beautiful gift beyond price I 
 Beyond loss, beyond tears! 
 Hither she stands, clad in a veil. 
 O thou youth of tlie world ! 
 She was a stranger to thee, 
 Thou didst fear her and flee. 
 
 Sorrow is her name ; 
 And the face of Sorrow is pale; 
 But her heart is aflame 
 With a fire no winter can tame. 
 Her love will not bend 
 To the storm. 
 To the voices of pleasure. 
 Nor faint in the arms of the earth ; 
 But she followeth ever the form 
 Of the Master whose promise is sure. 
 Who knows both our death and oiu" 
 birth. . 
 
 James Thomas Fields. 
 
 MORNING AND EVENING BY THE 
 
 SEA. 
 
 At dawn the fleet stretched miles 
 away 
 
 On ocean-plains asleep, — 
 Trim vessels waiting for the day 
 
 To move across the deep. 
 So still the sails they seemed to be 
 White lilies growing in the sea. 
 
 When evening touched the cape's 
 low rim. 
 And dark fell on the waves, 
 We only saw processions dim 
 
 Of clouds, from shadowy caves ; 
 These were the ghosts of buried ships 
 Gone down in one brief hour's 
 eclipse ! 
 
 THE PERPETUITY OF SONG. 
 
 It was a blithesome young jongleur 
 
 Who started out to sing. 
 Eight hundred years ago, or more. 
 
 On a leafy morn in spring; 
 And he carolled sweet as any bird 
 
 That ever tried its wing. 
 
 Of love his little heart was full, — 
 
 Madonna ! how he sang ! 
 The blossoms trembled with delight, 
 
 And round about him sprang, 
 As forth among tlie banks of Loire 
 
 The minstrel's music rang. 
 
 The boy had left a home of want 
 To wander up and down. 
 
And sing for bread and nightly rest 
 
 In many an alien town. 
 And bear whatever lot befell, — 
 
 The alternate smile and frown. 
 
 The singer's carolling lips are dust. 
 
 And ages long since then 
 Dead kings have lain beside their 
 thrones, 
 
 Voiceless as common men, — 
 But Gerald's songs are echoing still 
 
 Through every mountain glen! 
 
 /.V EXTREMIS. 
 
 On. the soul-haunting shadows when 
 
 low he'll lie dying, 
 And the dread angel's voice for his 
 
 spirit is crying! 
 Where will his thoughts wander, just 
 
 before sleeping, 
 When a chill from the dark o'er his 
 
 forehead is creeping ? 
 Will he go on beguiling. 
 And wantonly smiling ? 
 
 'Tis June with him now, but quick 
 
 cometh December ; 
 There's a broken heart somewhere 
 
 for him to remember. 
 And sure as God liveth, for all his 
 
 gay trolling. 
 The bell for his passing one day will 
 
 be tolling! 
 
 Then no more beguiling. 
 False vowing and smiling! 
 
 A PROTEST. 
 
 Go, sophist! dare not to despoil 
 My life of what it sorely needs 
 
 In days of pain, in hours of toil, — 
 The bread on which my spirit 
 feeds. 
 
 You see no light beyond the stars. 
 No hope of lasting joys to come ? 
 
 I feel, thank God, no narrow bars 
 Iletween me and my final home! 
 
 Hence with your cold sepulcliral 
 bans, — 
 The vassal doubts Unfaith has 
 given ! 
 My childhood's heart within the 
 man's 
 Still whispers to me, "Trust in 
 Heaven ! ' ' 
 
 COURTESY. 
 
 How sweet and gracious, even in 
 
 common speech. 
 Is that fine sense which men call 
 
 Courtesy ! 
 Wholesome as air and genial as the 
 
 light, 
 Welcome in every clime as breath of 
 
 flowers, — 
 It transnmtes aliens into trusting 
 
 friends. 
 And gives its owner passport round 
 
 the globe. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 O HAPPIEST he, whose riper years 
 
 retain 
 The hopes of youth, unsullied by a 
 
 stain! 
 His eve of life in calm content shall 
 
 glide, 
 Like the still streamlet to tlie ocean 
 
 tide: 
 No gloomy cloud hangs o'er his tran- 
 quil day; 
 No meteor lures him from his home 
 
 astray ; 
 For him there glows with glittering 
 
 beam on high 
 Love's changeless star that leads him 
 
 to the sky ; 
 Still to the past he sometimes turns 
 
 to trace 
 The mild expression of a mother's 
 
 face. 
 And dreams, perchance, as oft in 
 
 earlier years. 
 The low, sweet music of her voice he 
 
 hears. 
 
FINCH. 
 
 2-11 
 
 FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE ODEON. 
 
 "I AM Nicholas Tacchinardi, — hunchbacked, look you, and a fright; 
 
 Caliban himself might never interpose so foul a sight. 
 
 Granted; but 1 come not, masters, to exhibit form or size. 
 
 Gaze not on my limbs, good people; lend your ears, and not your e//e.s. 
 
 I'm a singer, not a ditncer, — spare me for a while your din; 
 
 Let me try my voice to-night here, — keep your jests till 1 begin. 
 
 Have the kindness but to listen, — this is all I dare to ask. 
 
 See, I stand beside the footlights, waiting to begin my task, 
 
 If I fail to please you, curse me, — not before my voice you hear. 
 
 Thrust- me not from the Odeon. Hearken, and I've naught to fear." 
 
 Then the crowd in pit and boxes jeered the dwarf, and mocked his shape; 
 Called him "monster." "thing abhorrent," crying, "Off, presumptuous ape ! 
 Off, vmsightly, baleful creature! off, and quit the insulted stage! 
 Move aside, repulsive figure, or deplore our gathering rage." 
 
 Bowing low, pale Tacchinardi, long accustomed to such threats. 
 Burst into a grand bravura, showering notes like diamond jets, — 
 Sang until the ringing plaudits through the wide Ode'on rang, — 
 Sang as never soaring tenor ere behind those footlights sang; 
 And the himchback, ever after, like a god was hailed with cries, — 
 '' Kiny of minstrels, live forever! Shame on fools loho have but eyes.'^' 
 
 Francis Miles Finch. 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 
 
 By the flow of the inland river; 
 
 AVlience the fleets of iron had fled. 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass 
 quiver, 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
 Under the sod and the dew; 
 
 Waiting the Judgment-Uay; 
 Under the one, the Blue ; 
 Under the other, the Gray. 
 
 These in the robings of glory. 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat ; 
 All with the battle-blood- goi-y, 
 In the dusk of eternity meet; 
 Under the sod and tlie dew; 
 
 Waiting the Judgment-Day; 
 Under the laurel, the Blue; 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours 
 The desolate mourners go, 
 
 Lovingly laden with flowers, 
 Alilce for the friend and the foe; 
 Under the sod and the dew; 
 
 Waiting the Judgment-Day; 
 Under the laurel, the Blue; 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 So, with an equal splendor, 
 
 The morning sun-rays fall, 
 With a touch impartially tender. 
 On the blossoms blooming for all ; 
 Under the sod and the (lew ; 
 
 AVaiting the Judgment-Day ; 
 Broidered with gold, the Blue; 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 
 
 So. when the smnmer calleth 
 On forest and field of grain. 
 With an equal murmiu- falleth 
 The cooling dri]i of the rain; 
 Under the sod and the dew; 
 
 AVaiting the Judgment-Day; 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue; 
 AVet with the rain, the Gray. 
 
228 
 
 FRENEAU— GANNETT. 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
 The generous deed was done ; 
 In the storm of the years, now fad- 
 ing, 
 No braver battle was won ; 
 Under the sod and the dew : 
 
 Waiting the Judgment-Day; 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 No more shall the war-cry sever. 
 
 Or the winding rivers be red ; 
 They banish our anger forever 
 When they laurel the graves of our 
 dead. 
 Under the sod and the dew; 
 
 Waiting the Judgment-Day ; 
 Love and tears for the Blue; 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 Philip Freneau. 
 
 MAY TO APRIL. 
 
 Without your showers 
 
 1 breed no flowers; 
 Each field a barren waste appears ; 
 
 If you don't weep. 
 
 My blossoms sleep. 
 They take such pleasure in your tears. 
 
 As your decay 
 
 Made room for May, 
 So I must part with all that's mine; 
 
 My balmy breeze. 
 
 My blooming trees. 
 To torrid zones tlieir sweets resign. 
 
 For April dead 
 
 My sliades I spread, 
 To her I owe my dress so gay; 
 
 Of daughters three 
 
 It falls on me 
 To close our triumphs in one day. 
 
 Thus to repose 
 
 All nature goes; 
 Month after mouth must find its 
 doom ; 
 
 Time on the wing. 
 
 May ends the spring. 
 And summer frolics o'er her tomb. 
 
 William Channing Gannett. 
 
 LISTENING FOR GOD. 
 
 I HEAR it often in the dark, 
 
 I hear it in the light, — 
 Where is the voice that calls to me 
 
 With such a quiet might '? 
 It seems but echo to my thought, 
 
 And yet beyond the stars ; 
 It seems a heart-beat in a hush. 
 
 And yet the planet jars. 
 
 Oh, may it be that far within 
 
 My inmost soul there lies 
 A spirit-sky, that opens with 
 
 Those voices of surprise ? 
 And can it be, by night and day, 
 
 That firmament serene 
 Is just the heaven where God himself. 
 
 The. Father, dwells unseen? 
 
 Oh, God within, so close to me 
 
 That every thought is plain, 
 Be judge, be friend, be Father still. 
 
 And in thy heaven reign! 
 Thy heaven is mine, — my very 
 soul ! 
 
 Thy words are sweet and strong; 
 They fill my inward silences 
 
 With music and with song. 
 
 They send me challenges to right. 
 
 And loud rebuke my ill; 
 They ring my bells of victory. 
 
 They breathe my "Peace, be still I" 
 They ever seem to say, " My child; 
 
 Why seek me so all day ? 
 Now journey inward to thyself, 
 
 And listen by the way." 
 
William Lloyd Garrison. 
 
 THE FREE MIND. 
 
 High walls and huge the body may 
 confine, 
 
 And iron gates obstruct the pi'isoner's 
 gaze, 
 
 And massive bolts may baffle his de- 
 sign, 
 
 And vigilant keepers watch his de- 
 vious ways ; 
 
 But scorns the innnortal" mind such 
 base control; 
 
 No chains can bind it and no cell en- 
 close. 
 
 Swifter than light it flies from pole 
 to pole. 
 
 And in a flash from earth to heaven 
 it goes. 
 
 It leaps from mount to mount, from 
 vale to vale 
 
 It wanders plucking honeyed fruits 
 and flowers; 
 
 It visits home to hear the fireside tale 
 
 And in sweet converse jjass the joy- 
 ous hours ; 
 
 'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, 
 
 And in its watches wearies every star. 
 
 Frank H. Gassaway. 
 
 BAY BILLY. 
 
 'TwAS the last fight at Fredericks- 
 burg, — 
 Perhaps the day you reck, 
 Our boys, the Twenty-Second Maine, 
 
 Kept Early's men in check. 
 Just where Wade Hampton boomed 
 away 
 The fight went neck and neck. 
 
 All day the weaker wing we held. 
 
 And held it with a will. 
 Five several stubborn times we 
 charged 
 
 The battery on the hill, 
 And five times beaten back, re-formed. 
 
 And kept our coliunn still. 
 
 At last from out the centre fight. 
 
 Spurred up a general's aid. 
 " That battery must silenced be! " 
 
 He cried, as past he sped. 
 Our colonel simply touched his cap, 
 
 And then, with measured tread, 
 
 To lead the crouching line once more 
 The grand old fellow came. 
 
 No wounded man l)ut raised his head 
 And strove to gasp his name. 
 
 And those who could not speak nor 
 stir, 
 " God blessed him" just the same. 
 
 For he was all the world to us, 
 
 That hero gray and grim. 
 Right well we knew that fearful slope 
 
 We'd climb with none but him, 
 Thovigh while his white head led the 
 way 
 
 We'd charge hell's portals in. 
 
 This time we were not half-way up. 
 When, midst the storm of shell, 
 
 Our leader, with his sword upraised. 
 Beneath our bayonets fell. 
 
 And, as we bore him back, the foe 
 Set vip a joyous yell. 
 
 Our hearts went with him. Back 
 we swept. 
 And when the bugle said 
 "Up, charge, again!" no man was 
 there 
 But hung his dogged head. 
 "We've no one left to lead us now," 
 The sullen soldiers said. 
 
 Just then before the laggard line 
 The colonel's horse we spied, 
 
 
Bay Billy with his trappings on, 
 His nostrils swelling wide, 
 
 As though still on his gallant back 
 The master sat astride. 
 
 Kight royally he took the place 
 
 That was of old his wont, 
 And with a neigh that seemed to say, 
 
 Above the battle's brunt, 
 " How can the Twenty-Second charge 
 
 If I am not in front?" 
 
 Like statues rooted there we stood. 
 
 And gazed a little space. 
 Above that floating mane we missed 
 
 The dear familiar face, 
 But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire, 
 
 And it gave us heart of grace. 
 
 No bugle-call could rouse us all 
 As that brave sight had done, 
 
 Down all the battered line we felt 
 A lightning impulse run. 
 
 Up! up the hill we followed Bill, 
 And we captured every gun ! 
 
 And when upon the conquered height 
 Died out the battle's hum. 
 
 Vainly mid living and the dead 
 We sought our leader dumb. 
 
 It seemed as if a spectre steed 
 To win that day had come. 
 
 And then the dusk and dew of night 
 
 Fell softly o'er the plain, 
 As though o'er man's dread work of 
 death 
 The angels wept again. 
 And drew night's curtain gently 
 round 
 A thousand beds of pain. 
 
 All night the surgeons' torches went. 
 The ghastly rows between, — 
 
 All night with solenui step I paced 
 The torn and bloody green. 
 
 But who that fought in the big war 
 Such dread sights have not seen ? 
 
 At last the morning broke. The lark 
 Sang in the merry skies, 
 
 As if to e'en the sleepers there 
 
 It bade awake, and rise ! 
 Though naught but that last trump 
 of all 
 
 Could ope their heavy eyes. 
 
 And then once more with banners 
 
 gay. 
 
 Stretched out the long brigade. 
 Trimly upon the furrowed field 
 
 The troops stood on parade. 
 And bravely mid the ranks were 
 closed 
 
 The gaps the fight had made. 
 
 Not half the Twenty-Second's men 
 AVere in their place that morn; 
 
 And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon 
 Stood six brave fellows on. 
 
 Now touched my elbow in the ranks, 
 For all between were gone. 
 
 Ah ! who forgets that dreary hour 
 When, as with misty eyes. 
 
 To call the old familiar roll 
 The solenm sergeant tries, — 
 
 One feels that thumping of the heart 
 As no prompt voice replies. 
 
 And as in faltering tone and slow 
 The last few names were said. 
 
 Across the field some missing horse 
 Toiled up the weary tread, 
 
 It caught the sergeant's eye, and 
 quick 
 Bay 13illy's name he read. 
 
 Yes I there the old bay hero stood, 
 All safe from battle's harms. 
 
 And ere an order could be heard. 
 Or the bugle's quick alarms. 
 
 Down all the front, from end to end. 
 The troops presented arms ! 
 
 Not all the shoulder-straps on earth 
 Could still our nughty cheer; 
 
 And ever from that famous day, 
 AVlien rang the roll call clear. 
 
 Bay I5illy's name was read, and 
 then 
 The whole line answered, ' ' Here ! " 
 
QILDER 
 
 •231 
 
 Richard Watson Gilder. 
 
 THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER 
 THE SUN. 
 
 There is nothing new under the svui ; 
 
 There is no new hope or despair; 
 The agony just begun 
 
 Is as old as the earth and the air. 
 My secret soul of bliss 
 
 Is one with the singing star's, 
 And the ancient mountains miss 
 
 No hurt that my being mars. 
 
 I know as I know my life, 
 
 I know as I know my pain. 
 That there is no lonely strife, 
 
 That he is mad who would gain 
 A separate balm for his woe, 
 
 A single pity and cover: 
 The one great God I know 
 
 Hears the same prayer over and 
 over. 
 
 I know it because at the portal 
 
 Of heaven I bowed and cried. 
 And I said, " Was ever a mortal 
 
 Thus crowned and crucified! 
 Afy praise thou hast made my blame; 
 
 My best thou hast made mj worst; 
 My good thou hast turned to shame ; 
 
 My drink is a flaming thirst." 
 
 But scarce my prayer was said 
 
 Ere from that place I turned ; 
 I trembled, I hung my head. 
 
 My cheek, shame-smitten, burned ; 
 For there where I bowed down 
 
 In my boastful agony, 
 I thought of thy cross and crown, — 
 
 O Christ ! I remembered thee. 
 
 THE SOWER. 
 
 A SOAVER went forth to sow. 
 His eyes were dark with woe; 
 He crushed the flowers beneath his 
 feet, [sweet. 
 
 Nor smelt the perfume warm and 
 That prayed for pity everywhere. 
 He came to a field tliat was harried 
 
 By iron, and to heaven laid bare: 
 He shook the seed that he carried 
 O'er that brown and bladeless ])lace. 
 He shook it, as (4od shakes hail . 
 Over a doomed land, 
 When lightnings interlace 
 The sky and the earth, and his wand 
 Of love is a tliunder flail. 
 
 Tlius did tliat sower sow; 
 His seed was human blood, 
 And tears of \\ om(>n and men. 
 And I, who near him stood, 
 Said : When the crop comes, then 
 There will be sobbing and sighing, 
 Weeping and wailing and crying. 
 Flame and ashes and Avoe. 
 
 It was an autumn day 
 When next I Avent that way. 
 And what, think you. did I see? 
 AYliat Avas it that I heard ? 
 The song of a sweet-Aoiced bird ? 
 Nay — but tlie songs of many. 
 Thrilled through Avith praise 
 
 prayer. 
 Of all those voices not any 
 ^Vere sad of memoi'y : 
 And a sea of sunlight flowed, 
 And a golden harvest glowed ! 
 On my iace I fell down there ; 
 And I said: Thou only art wise — 
 God of tlie earth and skies ! 
 And I tliank thee, again and again. 
 For the sower Avhose name is Pain. 
 
 and 
 
 WEAL AND WOE. 
 
 O HIGHEST, strongest, sweetest wom- 
 an-soul ! 
 
 Thou boldest in tlie compass of 
 thy grace 
 
 All the strange fate and passion of 
 thy race ; 
 
 Of the old, primal curse thou 
 knoAvest the whole : 
 Tliine eyes, too Avise, are heavy with 
 the dole. 
 
 The doubt, the dread of all this 
 luunan maze; 
 
232 
 
 GILDER. 
 
 Thou in the virgin morning of thy 
 
 days 
 Hast felt the bitter waters o'er tliee 
 
 roll. 
 Yet thou knowest, too, the terrible 
 
 delight, 
 The still content, aiid solemn 
 
 ecstasy ; 
 Whatever sharp, sweet bliss thy 
 
 kind may know. 
 Thy spirit is deep for pleasure as for 
 
 woe — 
 Deep as the rich, dark-caverned, 
 
 awful sea 
 That the keen-winded, glimmering 
 
 dawn makes white. 
 
 TWO LOVE QUATRAINS. 
 
 Not from the whole wide world I 
 choose thee — 
 Sweetheart, light of the land and 
 the sea ! 
 The wide, wide world could not en- 
 close thee. 
 For thou art the whole wide world 
 to me. 
 
 Yeaks have flown since I knew thee 
 first. 
 
 And I know thee as water is known 
 of thirst: 
 
 Yet I knew thee of old at the first 
 sweet sight. 
 
 And thou art strange to me, love, to- 
 night. 
 
 WHAT WOULD I SAVE THEE 
 FROM. 
 
 What would I save thee from, dear 
 heart, dear heart ? 
 Not from what heaven may send 
 
 thee of its pain; 
 Not from fierce sunshine or the 
 
 scathing rain: 
 The pang of pleasure; passion's 
 wound and smart ; 
 Not from the scorn and sorrow of 
 thine art; 
 
 Nor loss of faithful friends, nor 
 
 any gain 
 Of growth by grief. I would not 
 
 thee restrain 
 From needful death. But oh, thou 
 
 other part 
 Of me! — through whom the whole 
 
 world I behold. 
 As through the blue I see the stars 
 
 above ! 
 In whom the world I find, hid 
 
 fold on fold ! 
 Thee would I save from this — nay, do 
 
 not move! 
 Fear not, it may not flash, the air 
 
 is cold; 
 Save thee from this — the lightning 
 
 of my love. 
 
 / COUNT MY' TIME BY TIMES 
 THAT I MEET THEE. 
 
 I COUNT my time by times that 1 
 meet thee; 
 
 These are my yesterdays, my mor- 
 rows, noons. 
 
 And nights; these my old moons 
 and my new moons. 
 
 Slow fly the hours, or fast the 
 hours do flee. 
 If thou art far from or art near to 
 me : 
 
 If thou art far, the birds' tunes 
 are no tunes; 
 
 If thou art near, the wintry days 
 are Junes, — 
 
 Darkness is light, and soi'row can 
 not be. 
 Thou art my dream come true, and 
 thou ray dream, 
 
 The air I breathe, the world where- 
 in I dwell ; 
 
 My journey's end thou art, and 
 thou the way ; 
 Thou art what I would be, yet only 
 seem ; 
 
 Thou art my heaven and thou art 
 my hell ; 
 
 Thou art my ever-living judgment- 
 day. 
 
GILDER. 
 
 233 
 
 LOVE'S JEALOUSY. 
 
 Of other men I know no jealousy, 
 
 Nor of the maid who holds thee 
 close, oh, close: 
 
 But of the June-red, summer- 
 scented rose, 
 
 And of the orange-streaked simset 
 sky 
 That wins the soul of thee through 
 thy deep eye ; 
 
 And of the breeze by thee beloved, 
 that goes 
 O'er thy dear hair and brow; the 
 song that flows 
 
 Into thy heart of hearts, where it 
 may die. 
 I would I were one moment that 
 sweet show 
 
 Of flower; or breeze beloved that 
 toucheth all ; 
 
 Or sky that through the summer 
 eve doth burn. 
 I would I were the song thou lovestso. 
 
 At sound of me to have thine eye- 
 lid fall: 
 
 But I would then to something 
 human turn. 
 
 A THOUGHT. 
 
 Once, looking from a window on a 
 
 land 
 That lay in silence underneath the 
 
 sun; 
 A land of broad, green meadows, 
 
 through which poured 
 Two rivers, slowly winding to the 
 
 sea, — 
 Thus, as I looked, I know not how 
 
 or whence. 
 Was borne into my unexpectant soul 
 That thought, late learned by anx- 
 
 ious-witted man. 
 The infinite patience of the Eternal 
 
 Mind. 
 
 AND WERE THAT BEST? . 
 
 And were that best. Love, dreamless, 
 
 endless sleep ? 
 Gone all the fury of the mortal 
 
 day; 
 The daylight gone, and gone the 
 
 starry ray! 
 And were that best. Love, rest se- 
 rene and deep ? 
 Gone labor and desire; no arduous 
 
 steep 
 To climb, no songs to sing, no 
 
 prayers to pray. 
 No help for those who perish by 
 
 the way. 
 No laughter 'midst our tears, no 
 
 tears to weep ! 
 And were that best, Love, sleep with 
 
 no dear dream, 
 Nor memory of any thing in life ? 
 Stark death that neither help nor 
 
 hurt can know ! 
 Oh, rather. Love, the sorrow-bring- 
 ing gleam, 
 The living day's long agony and 
 
 strife ! 
 Katlier strong love in pain, — the 
 
 wakinir woe ! 
 
 THROUGH LOVE TO LIGHT. 
 
 Through love to light! Oh, wonder- 
 ful the way 
 
 That leads from darkness to the per- 
 fect day I 
 
 From darkness and from sorrow of 
 the night 
 
 To morning that comes singing o'er 
 the sea. 
 
 Through love to liijht! Through 
 light, O God, to thee, 
 
 Who art the love of love, the eternal 
 light of light ! 
 
234 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 [From The Deserted Village.] 
 THE VILLAGE PREACHER. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once 
 the garden smiled, 
 
 And still where many a garden flower 
 grows wild. 
 
 There, where a few torn shritbs the 
 place disclose, 
 
 The village preacher's modest man- 
 sion rose. 
 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 
 And passing rich with forty pounds 
 a year ; 
 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly 
 race, 
 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to 
 change his place; 
 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for 
 power 
 
 By doctrines fashioned to the vary- 
 ing hour; 
 
 Far other aims his heart had learned 
 to prize — 
 
 More beht to raise the wretched than 
 to rise. 
 
 His house was known to all the va- 
 grant train ; 
 
 He chid their wanderings, but re- 
 lieved their pain. 
 
 The long-remembered beggar was his 
 guest. 
 
 Whose beard, descending, swept his 
 aged breast; 
 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no 
 longer proud. 
 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his 
 claims allowed ; 
 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to 
 stay. 
 
 Sate by his fire, and talked the night 
 away — 
 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of 
 sorrow done, 
 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed 
 how fields were won. 
 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man 
 learned to glow, 
 
 And quite forgot their vices in their 
 woe; 
 
 Careless their merits or their faults 
 
 to scan, 
 His pity gave, ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was 
 
 his pride. 
 And e'en his failings leaned to vir- 
 tue's side; 
 But in his duty, prompt at every call, 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and 
 
 felt for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment 
 
 tries 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring 
 
 to the skies. 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull 
 
 delay. 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led 
 
 the way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life 
 was laid. 
 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns 
 dismayed. 
 
 The reverend champion stood. At 
 his control 
 
 Despair and anguish fled the strug- 
 gling soul ; 
 
 Comfort came down the trembling 
 wretch to raise, 
 
 And his last faltering accents whis- 
 pered praise. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaf- 
 fected grace, 
 
 His looks adorned the venerable 
 place ; 
 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with 
 double sway. 
 
 And fools, who came to scoff, re- 
 mained to pray. 
 
 The service past, around the pious 
 man, [ran ; 
 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic 
 
 E'en children followed, with endear- 
 ing wile. 
 
 And plucked his gown, to share the 
 good man's smile. 
 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth 
 exprest ; 
 
GOLDSMITH. 
 
 235 
 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their 
 
 cares distressed ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his 
 
 gi-iefs were given — 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest 
 
 in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful 
 
 form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway 
 
 leaves the storm. 
 Though round its breast the rolling 
 
 clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 [From The Deserted Village.] 
 THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that 
 skirts the way, 
 With blossomed furze unprofitably 
 
 gay, 
 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skilled 
 
 to rule. 
 The village master taught his little 
 
 school. 
 A man severe he was, and stern to 
 
 view — 
 I knew him well, and every truant 
 
 knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learned 
 
 to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning 
 
 face; 
 Full well they laughed, with coun- 
 terfeited glee. 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had 
 
 he; 
 Full well the busy whisper, circling 
 
 round. 
 Conveyed the dismal tidings when he 
 
 frowned ; 
 Yet he was kind — or, if severe in 
 
 aught, 
 The love he bore to learning was in 
 
 fault. 
 The village all declared how much he 
 
 knew ; 
 'T was certain he could write, and 
 
 ciplier too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and 
 
 tides presage, 
 
 And e'en the story ran that he could 
 
 gauge. 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned 
 
 his skill, 
 For, e'en though vanquished, he 
 
 could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and 
 
 thundering sound 
 Amazed the gazing rustics ranged 
 
 around ; 
 And still they gazed, and still the 
 
 wonder grew. 
 That one small head could carry all 
 
 he knew. 
 
 [From The Deserted Village.] 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF PASSING ONE'S 
 
 AGE IN FAMILIAR PLACES. 
 
 In all my wanderings round this 
 
 world of care. 
 In all my griefs — and God has given 
 
 my share — 
 I still had hopes my latest hours to 
 
 crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay 
 
 me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the 
 
 close. 
 And keep the flame from wasting by 
 
 repose ; 
 I still had hopes — for pride attends 
 
 us still — 
 Amidst the swains to show my book- 
 learned skill. 
 Around my fire an evening group to 
 
 draw, 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; 
 And, as a hare, whom hounds and 
 
 horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at 
 
 first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations 
 
 past. 
 Here to return — and die at home at 
 
 last. 
 
 O blest retirement! friend to life's 
 decline ! 
 Retreat from care, that never must 
 be mine! 
 
236 
 
 O OLD SMITH. 
 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades 
 like these, 
 
 A youth of labor, with an age of ease; 
 
 Who quits a world where strong temp- 
 tations try, 
 
 And, since 't is hard to combat, learns 
 to fly! 
 
 For him no wretches, born to work 
 and weep, 
 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dan- 
 gerous deep ; 
 
 No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
 
 To spurn imploring famine from the 
 gate; 
 
 But on he moves to meet his latter 
 end, 
 
 Angels around befriending virtue's 
 friend ; 
 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived 
 decay. 
 
 While resignation gently slopes the 
 way ; 
 
 And, all his prospects brightening to 
 the last, 
 
 His heaven commences, ere the world 
 be past. 
 
 {From The Traveller.] 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 Gay sprightly land of mirth and 
 social ease. 
 
 Pleased with thyself, whom all the 
 world can please. 
 
 How often have I led thy sportive 
 choir. 
 
 With tuneless pipe, beside the mur- 
 muring Loire ! 
 
 Where shading elms along the mar- 
 gin grew. 
 
 And freshened from the wave the 
 zephyr flew; 
 
 And haply, though my harsh touch, 
 faltering still. 
 
 But mocked all tune, and marred the 
 dancer's skill. 
 
 Yet would the village praise my won- 
 drous power, 
 
 And dance, forgetful of the noontide 
 hour. 
 
 Alike all ages : dames of ancient 
 days 
 
 Have led their children through the 
 
 mirthful maze. 
 And the gay grandsire, skilled in 
 
 gestic lore, 
 Has frisked beneath the burden of 
 
 threescore. 
 Jio blest a life these thoughtless 
 
 realms display, 
 Thus idly busy rolls their world away: 
 Tlieirs are those arts that mind to 
 
 mind endear, 
 For honor forms the social temper 
 
 here: 
 Honor, that praise which real merit 
 
 gains 
 Or e'en imaginary worth obtains. 
 Here passes current ; paid from hand 
 
 to hand. 
 It shifts in splendid traffic round the 
 
 land : 
 From coui-ts, to camps, to cottages it 
 
 strays, 
 And all are taught an avarice of 
 
 praise; 
 They please, are pleased, they give 
 
 to get esteem. 
 Till, seeming blest, they grow to 
 
 what they seem. 
 But while this softer art their bliss 
 
 supplies, 
 It gives their follies also room to rise; 
 For praise too dearly loved, or warm- 
 ly sought, 
 Enfeebles all internal strength of 
 
 thought ; 
 And the weak soul, within itself un- 
 
 blest. 
 Leans for all pleasure on another's 
 
 breast. 
 Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry 
 
 art. 
 Pants for the vulgar praise which 
 
 fools impart; [ace, 
 
 Here Vanity assumes her pert grim- 
 And trims her robe of frieze with 
 
 copper lace ; 
 Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily 
 
 cheer, 
 To boast one splendid banquet once 
 
 a year; 
 The mind still turns where shifting 
 
 fashion draws 
 Nor weighs the solid worth of self- 
 applause. 
 
 
GOODALE. 
 
 [From The Oratorio of the Captivity.] 
 HOPE. 
 
 The wretch condemned with hfe to 
 part, 
 
 Still, still on hope relies; 
 And every pang that rends the heart, 
 
 Bids expectation rise. 
 
 Hope, like the glimmering taper's 
 light, 
 
 Adorns and cheers the way. 
 And still, as darker grows the night, 
 
 Emits a brighter tUiy. 
 
 [From the Oratorio of the Captiriti/.] 
 THE PROPHETS' SOXG. 
 
 Our God is all we boast below. 
 To Him we turn our eyes; 
 
 And every added weight of woe, 
 Shall make our homage rise. 
 
 And though no temple richly dressed, 
 
 Nor sacrifice is here; 
 We'll make His temple in our breast. 
 
 And offer up a tear. 
 
 [From The Oratorio of the Captivity.'] 
 MEMOn Y. 
 
 O Memohy! thou fond deceiver, 
 Still importunate and vain. 
 
 To former joys recurring ever. 
 And turning all the past to pain ! 
 
 Then, like the world, the oppressed 
 oppressing, 
 Thy smiles increase the wretch's 
 woe ; 
 And he who wants each otiier bless- 
 ing. 
 In thee must ever find a foe. 
 
 Dora Read Goodale. 
 
 PilPE GRArX. 
 
 O STILL, white face of perfect 
 peace, 
 Untouched by passion, freed from 
 pain, — 
 He who ordained that work should 
 cease, 
 Took to Himself the ripened grain. 
 
 O noble face ! your beauty bears 
 The glory that is wrung from pain, 
 
 The high celestial beauty wears 
 Of finished work, of ripened grain. 
 
 Of human care you left no trace. 
 No lightest trace of grief or pain, — 
 
 On earth an empty form and face — 
 In Heaven stands the ripened grain. 
 
 Elaine Goodale. 
 
 ASHES OF ROSES. 
 
 Soft on the sunset sky 
 
 Bright daylight closes, 
 Leaving, when light doth die. 
 Pale hues that mingling lie, — 
 Ashes of roses. 
 
 When Love's warm sun is set, 
 
 Love's brightness closes; 
 Eyes with hot tears are wet. 
 In hearts then linger yet 
 Ashes of roses. 
 
Hannah Flagg Gould. 
 
 THE SOUL'S FAREWELL. 
 
 It must be so, poor, fading, mortal 
 thing! 
 And now we part, thou i^allid form 
 of clay I 
 Thy hold is broken — I unfurl my 
 wing; 
 And from the dust the spirit must 
 away ! 
 
 As thou at night, hast thrown thy 
 vesture by, 
 Tired with the day, to seek thy 
 wonted rest, 
 Fatigued with time's vain round, 'tis 
 thus that I 
 Of thee, frail covering, myself di- 
 vest. 
 
 Thou knowest, while journeying in 
 this thorny road, 
 How oft we've sighed and strug- 
 gled to be twain ; 
 How I have longed to drop my earth- 
 ly load, 
 And thou, to rest thee from thy 
 toil and pain. 
 
 Then he, who severs our mysterious 
 tie. 
 Is a kind angel, granting each re- 
 lease ; 
 He'll seal thy quivering lip and 
 sunken eye. 
 And stamp thy brow with ever- 
 lasting peace. 
 
 When thou hast lost the beauty that I 
 gave. 
 And life's gay scenes no more will 
 give thee place, 
 Thou may'st retire within the secret 
 grave. 
 Where none shall look upon thine 
 altered face. 
 
 But I am summoned to the eternal 
 throne. 
 To meet the presence of the King 
 most high; 
 
 I go to stand unshrouded and alone, 
 Full in the light of God's all-search- 
 ing eye. 
 
 There must the deeds which we to- 
 gether wrought, 
 Be all remembered — each a wit- 
 ness made ; 
 The outward action and the secret 
 thought 
 Before the silent soul must there 
 be weighed. 
 
 Lo! I behold the seraph throng de- 
 scend 
 To waft me up where love and 
 mercy dw.ell; 
 Away, vain fears ! the Judge will be 
 my friend ; 
 It is my Father calls — pale clay, 
 farewell ! 
 
 A NAME IN THE SAND. 
 
 Alone I walked the ocean strand; 
 A pearly shell was in my hand : 
 I stooped and wrote upon the sand 
 
 My name — the year — the day. 
 As onward from the spot I passed, 
 One lingering look behind 1 cast: 
 A wave came rolling high and fast, 
 
 And washed my lines away. 
 
 And so, nietliought, 'twill shortly be 
 With every mark on earth trom me: 
 A wave of dark oblivion's sea 
 
 Will sweep across the place 
 Where I have trod the sandy shore 
 Of time, and been to be no more. 
 Of me — my day — the name I bore. 
 
 To leave nor track nor trace. 
 
 And yet, with Him wiio counts the 
 
 sands, 
 And holds the waters in his hands, 
 I know a lasting record stands. 
 
 Inscribed against my name, 
 
 Of all this mortal part has wrought; 
 
 Of all this thinking soul has thought; 
 
 And from these fleeting moments 
 
 caught 
 
 For glory or for shame. 
 
James Grahame. 
 
 IFrom The Sabbath.] 
 SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 How still the morning of the hal- 
 lowed day! 
 
 Mute is the voice of rural labor, 
 hushed 
 
 The ploughboy's whistle and the 
 milkmaid's song. 
 
 The scythe lies glittering in the dewy 
 wreath 
 
 Of tedded grass, mingled with fading 
 flowers, 
 
 That yester-morn bloomed waving 
 in the breeze. 
 
 Sounds the most faint attract the 
 ear, — the hum 
 
 Of early bee, the trickling of the 
 dew, 
 
 The distant bleating midway up the 
 hill. 
 
 Calmness seems throned on yon un- 
 moving cloud. 
 
 To him who wanders o'er the upland 
 leas, 
 
 The blackbird's note comes mellower 
 from the dale ; 
 
 And sweeter from the sky the glad- 
 some lark 
 
 Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the 
 lulling brook 
 
 Murmurs more gently down the 
 deep-sunk glen; 
 
 While from yon lowly roof, whose 
 curling smoke 
 
 O'ermounts the mist, is heard at in- 
 tervals 
 
 The voice of psalms, the simple song 
 of praise. 
 With dove-like wings Peace o'er 
 yon village broods : 
 
 The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the 
 anvil's din 
 
 Hath ceased ; all, all around is quiet- 
 ness. 
 
 Less fearful on this day, the limping 
 hare 
 
 Stops, and looks back, and stops, and 
 
 looks on man. 
 Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn 
 
 horse, set free, 
 Unheedful of the pasture, roams at 
 
 large ; 
 And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he 
 
 rolls. 
 His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the 
 
 morning ray. 
 But chiefly man the day of rest 
 
 enjoys. 
 Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor 
 
 man's day. 
 On other days, the man of toil is 
 
 doomed 
 To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the 
 
 ground 
 Both seat and board, screened from 
 
 the winter's cold 
 And summer's heat by neighboring 
 
 hedge or tree; 
 But on this day, embosomed in his 
 
 home. 
 He shares the frugal meal with those 
 
 he loves; 
 With those he loves he shares the 
 
 heartfelt joy 
 Of giving thanks to God, — not 
 
 thanks of form, 
 A word and a grimace, but reverently, 
 With covered face and upward ear- 
 nest eye. 
 Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor 
 
 man's day: 
 The pale mechanic now has leave to 
 
 breathe 
 The morning air, pure from the city's 
 
 smoke ; 
 While wandering slowly up the river- 
 side. 
 He meditates on Him whose power 
 
 he niarks 
 In each green tree that proudly 
 
 spreads the bough, 
 As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that 
 
 bloom 
 Around the roots. 
 
240 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 Elinor Gray. 
 
 ISOLATION. 
 
 We walk alone through all life's va- 
 rious ways, 
 
 Through light and darkness, sorrow, 
 joy, and change; 
 
 And greeting each to each, through 
 passing days, 
 
 Still we are strange. 
 
 We hold our dear ones with a firm, 
 
 strong grasp ; 
 We hear their voices, look into their 
 
 eyes; 
 And yet, betwixt us in that clinging 
 
 clasp 
 
 A distance lies. 
 
 We cannot know their hearts, how- 
 
 e'er we may 
 Mingle thought, aspiration, hope and 
 
 prayer; 
 
 We cannot reach them, and in vain 
 essay 
 
 To enter there. 
 
 Still, in each heart of hearts a hid- 
 den deep 
 
 Lies, never fathomed by its dearest, 
 best. 
 
 With closest care our purest thoughts 
 we keep. 
 
 And tenderest. 
 
 But, blessed thought! we shall not 
 
 always so 
 In darkness and in sadness walk 
 
 alone; 
 There comes a glorious day when we 
 
 shall know 
 
 As we are known. 
 
 Thomas Gray. 
 
 ELEGY l2\ A COUNTRY CHURCH- 
 YARD. 
 
 TuE curfew tolls the knell of parting 
 
 day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er 
 
 the lea, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his 
 
 weaiy way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness 
 
 and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape 
 
 on the sight. 
 And all the air a solemn stillness 
 
 holds, 
 Save where the beetle wheels his 
 
 droning flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 
 
 folds : 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled 
 
 tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon 
 
 complain 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret 
 
 bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew- 
 tree's shade, 
 
 Where heaves the turf in many a 
 mouldering heap. 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet 
 sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing 
 
 morn, 
 The swallow twittering from the 
 
 straw-built shed. 
 
GRAY. 
 
 241 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echo- 
 ing horn, 
 
 No more shall rouse them from their 
 lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth 
 shall burn, [care : 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's 
 return. 
 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to 
 share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle 
 
 yield, 
 Their furroAV oft the stubborn glebe 
 
 has broke ; 
 How jocund did they drive their team 
 
 afield! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their 
 
 sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful 
 toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny ob- 
 scure! [smile 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 
 
 The short and simple annals of the 
 poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of 
 
 power. 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth 
 
 e'er gave. 
 Await alike the inevitable hour, — 
 The paths of glory lead but to the 
 
 grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these 
 
 the fault. 
 If memory o'er their tomb no trophies 
 
 raise. 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle 
 
 and fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note 
 
 of praise. 
 
 Can storied lu-n or animated bust. 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
 
 breath ? 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent 
 
 dust, 
 Or Flattei y soothe the dull cold ear of 
 
 death ? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celes- 
 tial fire; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might 
 have swayed. 
 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: 
 
 But knowledge to their eyes her am- 
 ple page 
 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er 
 unroll; 
 
 Chill penury repressed their noble 
 rage. 
 
 And froze the genial current of the 
 soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 The dark unfathomed caves of ocean 
 
 bear: 
 Full many a flower is born to blush 
 
 unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert 
 
 air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with 
 dauntless breast. 
 
 The little tyrant of his fields with- 
 stood ; 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here 
 may rest. 
 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his coun- 
 try's blood. 
 
 The applause of list'ning senates to 
 command. 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to de- 
 spise. 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
 
 And read tlieir history in a nation's 
 eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed 
 alone 
 
 Their growing virtues, but their 
 crimes confined; 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter 
 to a throne. 
 
 And shut the gates of mercy on man- 
 kind; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious 
 
 truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous 
 
 shame, 
 
242 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and 
 
 pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's 
 
 flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's igno- 
 ble strife 
 
 Their sober wishes never learned to 
 stray ; 
 
 Along the cool, sequestei'ed vale of 
 life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
 way. 
 
 Yet e'en these bones from insult to 
 
 protect 
 Some frail memorial still erected 
 
 nigh, 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless 
 
 sculpture decked. 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the 
 
 unlettered Muse, 
 The jalace of fame and elegy supply: 
 And many a holy text around she 
 
 strews, 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a 
 prey, 
 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er re- 
 signed. 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheer- 
 ful day, 
 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look 
 behind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul 
 relies; 
 
 Some pious drops the closing eye re- 
 quires; 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of 
 Nature cries. 
 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted 
 fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of the un- 
 
 honored dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale 
 
 relate; [led. 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation 
 .Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 
 
 fate, — 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may 
 
 say. 
 Oft have we seen him at the peep of 
 
 dawn. 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews 
 
 away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland 
 
 lawn; 
 
 There at the foot of yonder nodding 
 beech 
 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots 
 so high, 
 
 His listless length at noon-tide would 
 he stretch. 
 
 And pore upon the brook that bab- 
 bles by. 
 
 Hard by yon wood, now smiling as 
 
 in scorn. 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he 
 
 would rove; 
 NoAV drooping, woful-wan, like one 
 
 forlorn. 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in 
 
 hoi)eless love. 
 
 One morn 1 missed him on the 'cus- 
 tomed hill, 
 
 Along the heath, and near his favor- 
 ite tree; 
 
 Another came; nor yet beside the 
 rill. 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood 
 was he; 
 
 The next Avith dirges due in sad array 
 Slow through the church-Avay jjath 
 
 we saw him borne, — 
 Approach and read (for thou canst 
 
 read) the lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon 
 
 aged thorn. 
 
 THE EPITAPH, 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of 
 earth 
 
 A youth, to for time and to fame un- 
 known ; 
 
 Fair Science f roAvned not on his hum- 
 ble birth. 
 
 And Melancholy marked him for her 
 own. 
 
GRAY. 
 
 243 
 
 Large was his bounty, and bis soul 
 
 sincere ; 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely 
 
 send : 
 He gave to inlsery all he had, a tear, 
 He gained from Heaven, 't was all he 
 
 wished, a friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 Or draw his frailties from their 
 
 dread abode, 
 (There they alike in trembling hope 
 
 repose, ) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosomed hours 
 
 Fair Venus' train, appear, 
 Disclose the long-expecting flowers 
 
 And wake the purple year! 
 The Attic warbler pours her throat 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 
 Tbe untaught harmony of spring: 
 While, whispering pleasure as they tly, 
 Cool zephyrs through the clear blue 
 sky' 
 
 Their gathered fragrance fling. 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches 
 stretch 
 A broader, browner shade, 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown 
 beech 
 O'er canopies the glade. 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and 
 think 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardor of the crowd. 
 How low, how little are the proud. 
 How indigent the great ; 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of Care; 
 
 The panting herds repose: 
 Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows : 
 The insect youth are on the wing, 
 Eager to taste the honeyed spring 
 
 And float amid the liquid noon : 
 Some lightly o'er the current skim. 
 Some show their gaily-gilded trim 
 
 Quick-glancing to the sun. 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of man : 
 And they that creep, and they that fly 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 But flutter thro' life's little day. 
 
 In fortune's varying colors drest: 
 Brushed by the hand of rough mis- 
 chance 
 Or chilled by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest. 
 
 Methinks I hear in accents low 
 
 The sportive kind reply: 
 Poor moralist! and what art thou ? 
 
 A solitary fly 1 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets. 
 No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. 
 
 No painted plumage to display: 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone, — 
 
 We frolic while 'tis May. 
 
 THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM 
 VICISSITUDE. 
 
 Smiles on past Misfortune's brow 
 Soft Reflection's hand can trace. 
 And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw 
 
 A melancholy grace; 
 While hope prolongs our happier 
 
 hour. 
 Or deepest shades, that dimly lower 
 And blacken round our weary way. 
 Gilds with a gleam of distant day. 
 
 Still, where rosy Pleasure leads. 
 
 See a kindred Grief pursue ; 
 Behind the steps that Misery treads 
 
 Approaching Comfort view: 
 The hues of bliss more brightly glow 
 Chastised by sabler tints of woe. 
 And blended form, with artful strife, 
 The strength and harmony of life. 
 
 See the wretch that long has tost 
 
 On the thorny bed of pain. 
 At length repair his vigor lost 
 
 And breathe and walk again: 
 The meanest floweret of the vale. 
 The simplest note that swells the gale, 
 The common sun, the air, the skies. 
 To him are opening Paradise. 
 
244 
 
 ORA i: 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
 ETON. 
 
 Yk distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 Tliat crown the wat'ry glade, 
 Where grateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade! 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights the expanse 
 below 
 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey. 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose 
 
 flowers among 
 AVanders the hoary Thames along 
 
 His silver winding way. 
 
 Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain! 
 Where once my careless childhood 
 strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain ! 
 I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome 
 wing. 
 My weary soul they seem to sooth, 
 And, redolent of joy and youth, 
 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
 Say, Father Tliames (for thou hast 
 seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race. 
 Disporting on thy margent green. 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace), 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave 
 With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthral ? 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed. 
 
 Or urge the flying ball ? 
 
 While some, on earnest business bent, 
 
 Their murm'ring labors ply 
 'Gainst graver hours, that bring con- 
 straint 
 
 To sweeten liberty : 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reign, 
 
 And unknown regions dare de- 
 scry, 
 Still as they run they look behind. 
 They hear a voice in every wind. 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 
 
 Less pleasing when possest; 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed, 
 
 The sunshine of the breast: 
 Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 
 Wild wit, invention ever new. 
 
 And lively cheer, of vigor born; 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
 The spirits pure, the slumbeis light 
 
 That fly the approach of morn. 
 
 Alas! regardless of their doom 
 
 The little victims play! 
 No sense have they of ills to come. 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day : 
 Yet see how all around them wait 
 The ministers of human fate 
 And black misfortune's baleful 
 train ! 
 Ah, show them where in ambush 
 
 stand. 
 To seize their prey, the murderous 
 band ! 
 Ah, tell them they are men! 
 
 These shall the fury passions tear. 
 
 The vultures of the mind. 
 Disdainful anger, pallid fear. 
 
 And shame that skulks behind; 
 Or pining love shall waste their 
 
 youth. 
 Or jealousy with rankling tooth 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart. 
 And envy wan, and faded care, 
 Grim-visaged comfortless despair, 
 
 And sorrow's piercing dart. 
 
 Ambition this shall temi)t to rise, 
 
 Tlien whirl the wretch from high 
 To bitter scorn a sacrifice 
 
 And grinning infamy. 
 The stings of "falsehood those shall 
 
 try. 
 And hard unkindness' altered eye. 
 
 That mocks the tear it forced to 
 flow; 
 And keen remorse with blood defiled. 
 And moody madness laughing wild 
 
 Amid severest woe. 
 
 Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen. 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their queen: 
 
aUSTAFSON. 
 
 245 
 
 This racks the joints, this fires the 
 
 veins, 
 That every laboring sinew strains, 
 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage: 
 Lo, poverty, to fill the band, 
 That numbs the soul v/ith icy hand, 
 
 And slow-consuming age. 
 
 To each his sufferings: all are men. 
 Condemned alike to groan ; 
 
 The tender for another's pain, 
 The imfeeling for his own. 
 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their 
 fate, 
 
 Since sorrow never comes too late. 
 And happiness too swiftly flies ? 
 
 Thought would destroy their para- 
 disc ! 
 
 No more, — where ignorance is bliss, 
 'Tis folly to be wise. 
 
 Zadel Barnes Gustafson. 
 
 LITTLE MARTIN CRAG HAN. 
 
 One reads tome Macaulay's "Lays" 
 With fervid voice, intoning well 
 
 The poet's fire, the vocal grace; 
 They hold me like a spell. 
 
 'Twere marvel if in human veins 
 
 Could beat a pulse so cold 
 It would not quicken to the strains, 
 The flying, fiery strains, that tell 
 How Rojiians "kept the bridge so 
 Avell 
 In the brave days of old." 
 
 The while I listened, till my blood. 
 Plunged in the poet's martial mood, 
 
 Rushed in my veins like wine, 
 1 prayed, — to One who hears, I wis; 
 "Give me one breath of power like 
 this 
 
 To sing of rittston mine! " 
 
 A child looks up the ragged shaft, 
 A boy whose meagre frame 
 
 Shrinks as he hears the roaring 
 draught 
 That feeds the eager flame. 
 
 He has a single chance; the stakes 
 
 Of life show death at bay 
 One moment ; then his comrade takes 
 
 The hope he casts away. 
 
 For while his trembling hand is raised. 
 And while his sweet eyes shine, 
 
 There swells above the love of life 
 The rush of love divine, — 
 
 The thought of those unwarned, to 
 whom 
 Death steals along the mine. 
 
 little Martin Craghan ! 
 I reck not if you swore, 
 
 Ijike Porsena of ( 'lusium. 
 
 By gods of mythic lore ; 
 But w^ell I ween as great a heart 
 
 Beat your small bosom sore. 
 
 And that your bare brown feet scarce 
 felt 
 The way they bounded o'er. 
 
 1 know you were a hero then, 
 Whate'er you were before; 
 
 And in God's sight your flying feet 
 Made white the cavern floor. 
 
 The while he speeds that darksome 
 way, 
 
 Hope paints upon his fears 
 Soft visions of the light of day; 
 
 Faint songs of birds he hears; 
 In summer breeze his tangled curls 
 
 Are blown about his ears. 
 
 He sees the men ; he warns ; and now. 
 
 His duty bravely done, 
 Sweet hope may paint the fairest 
 scene 
 
 That spreads beneath the sun. 
 
 Back to the burning shaft he flies; 
 
 There bounding pulses fail ; 
 The light forsakes his lifted eyes; 
 
 The glowing cheek is pale. 
 
246 
 
 GUSTAFSON. 
 
 With wheeling, whirHng, hungry 
 flame, 
 
 The seething shaft is rife: 
 Where sohd chains drip liquid fire, 
 
 What chance for human life ? 
 
 To die with tliose he hoped to save. 
 Back, back, through heat and 
 gloom. 
 
 To find a wall, — and Death and he 
 Shut in the larger tomb I 
 
 He pleaded to be taken in 
 As closer rolled the smoke; 
 
 In deathful vapors they could hear 
 His piteous accents choke. 
 
 And they, with shaking voice, re- 
 fused ; 
 And then the young heart broke. . 
 
 Oh love of life! God made it strong, 
 And knows how close it pressed; 
 
 And death to those who love life 
 least 
 Is scarce a welcome guest. 
 
 One thought of the poor wife, whose 
 head 
 
 Last night lay on his breast: 
 A quiver runs through lii^s that morn 
 
 By children's lips caressed. 
 
 These things the sweet strong 
 thoughts of home, — 
 
 Though but a wretched place. 
 To which the sad-eyed miners come 
 
 AVith Labor's laggard pace, — 
 Remembered in the cavern gloom. 
 
 Illume the haggard face, — 
 
 Ilhmied their faces, steeled each 
 heart. 
 
 O God ! what mysteries 
 Of brave and base make sum and part 
 
 Of human histories ! 
 What will not thy poor creatures do 
 
 To buy an hour of breath I 
 Well for us all some souls are true 
 
 Above the fear of death ! 
 
 He wept a little,— for they heard 
 The sound of sobs, the sighs 
 
 That breathed of martyrdom complete 
 Unseen of mortal eyes, — 
 
 And then, no longer swift, his feet 
 Passed down the galleries. 
 
 He crept and crouched beside his 
 nude. 
 Led by its dying moan; 
 He touched it feebly with a hand 
 
 That shook like palsy's own. 
 God grant the touch had power to 
 make 
 The child feel less alone ! 
 
 Who knoweth every heart. He knows 
 What moved the boyish mind; 
 
 What longings grew to passion-throes 
 For dear ones left behind ; 
 
 How hardly youth and youth's de- 
 sires 
 Their hold of life resigned. 
 
 Perhaps the little fellow felt 
 As brave Horatius thought, 
 
 When for those dearer lioman lives 
 He held his own as nought. 
 
 For how could boy die better 
 
 Than facing fearful fires 
 To save poor women's husbands 
 
 And helpless children's sires ? 
 
 Death leaned upon him heavily; 
 
 But Love, more mighty still. — 
 She lent him slender lease of life 
 
 To work her tender will. 
 
 He felt with sightless, sentient hand 
 Along the wall and ground, 
 
 And there the rude and simple page 
 For his sweet piu'pose found. 
 
 O'erwritten with the names he loved. 
 
 Clasped to his little side. 
 Dim eyes the wooden record read 
 
 Hours after he had died. 
 
 Thus from all knowledge of his kind. 
 In darkness lone and vast. 
 
 From life to death, from death to life. 
 The little hero passed. 
 
 And, while they listened for the feet 
 That would return no more. 
 
 Far off they fell in music sweet 
 Upon another shore. 
 
Samuel Miller Hageman. 
 
 ONL Y. 
 
 Only a little child, 
 Crushed to death to-day in the mart ; 
 But the whole unhorizoned kingdom 
 of heaven 
 
 Was in that little heart. 
 
 Only a grain of sand, 
 ISwirled up where the sea lies spent ; 
 But it holds wherever it be in space 
 
 The poise of a continent. 
 
 Only a minute gone. 
 That to think of now is vain ; 
 Ah! that was the minute without 
 whose link 
 
 Had dropped Eternity's chain. 
 
 THE TWO GREAT CITIES. 
 
 Side by side rise the two great cities. 
 
 Afar on the traveller's sight; 
 One, black with the dust of lalsor. 
 
 One, solemnly still and white. 
 Apart, and yet together. 
 
 They are reached in a dying breath, 
 But a river flows between them, 
 
 And the river's name is — Death 
 
 Apart, and yet together. 
 
 Together, and yet apart. 
 As the child may die at midnight 
 
 On the mother's living heart. 
 So close come the two great cities. 
 
 With only the river between ; 
 And the grass in the one is trami^led, 
 
 But the grass in the other is green. 
 
 The hills with uncovered foreheads. 
 
 Like the disciples meet. 
 While ever the flowing water 
 
 Is washing their hallowed feet. 
 And out on the glassy ocean, 
 
 The sails in the golden gloom 
 Seem to me but moving shadows 
 
 Of the white emmarbled tomb. 
 
 Anon, from the hut and the palace 
 Anon, from early till late, 
 
 They come, rich and jjoor together. 
 Asking alms at thy beautiful gate. 
 
 And never had life a guerdon 
 
 * So welcome to all to give. 
 
 In the land where the living are dy- 
 ing. 
 As the land where the dead may 
 live. 
 
 O silent city of refuge 
 
 On the way to the city o'erhead! 
 The gleam of thy marble milestones 
 
 Tells the distance we are from the 
 dead. 
 Full of feet, but a city untrodden, 
 
 Full of hands, but a city vmbidlt. 
 Full of strangers who know not even 
 
 That theirlife-cup lies there spilt. 
 
 They know not the tomb from the 
 palace. 
 They dream not they ever have 
 died : 
 God be thanked they never will know 
 it 
 Till they live on the other side ! 
 From the doors that death shut coldly 
 On the face of their last lone woe : 
 They came to thy glades for shelter 
 Who had nowhere else to go. 
 
248 
 
 HALLECK. 
 
 Fitz-Greene Halleck. 
 
 MARCO BOZZARIS. 
 
 At midnight in his guarded tent, 
 The Turk was dreaming of the 
 horn- 
 When Greece, her linee in suppliance 
 bent, 
 Should tremble at his power : 
 In dreams, through camp and court 
 
 he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror; 
 In dreams his song of triumph 
 heard ; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet ring: 
 Then pressed that monarch's throne 
 
 — a king ; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of 
 wing. 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band. 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 There had the Persian's thousands 
 
 stood. 
 There had the glad earth drunk their 
 blood 
 On old Platasa's day; 
 And now there breathed that haunted 
 
 air 
 The sons of sires who conquered 
 
 there. 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 As quick, as far as they. 
 
 An hour passed on — the Turk 
 awoke; 
 That bright dream was his last; 
 He woke to hear his sentries shriek, 
 " To arms! they come! the Greek! 
 the Greek!" 
 He woke — to die midst flame and 
 
 smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre- 
 stroke. 
 And death-shots falling thick and 
 fast 
 As lightnings from the mountain- 
 cloud ; 
 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet 
 loud, 
 Bozzaris cheer his band. 
 
 " Strike — till the last armed foe ex- 
 pires ; 
 
 Strike — for your altars and your 
 fires; 
 
 Strike — for the green graves of your 
 sires : 
 God, and your native land! " 
 
 They fought, — like brave men, long 
 and well; 
 They piled that ground with Mos- 
 lem slain ; 
 They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 His smile when rang their prouil hur- 
 rah. 
 And the red field was Avon : 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose. 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber. Death! 
 Come to the mother's, when she 
 
 feels. 
 For the first time, her first-born's 
 
 breath ; 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That close the pestilence are broke. 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
 Come in Consumption's ghastly 
 
 form, 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean 
 
 storm ; 
 Come when the heart beats high and 
 
 warm. 
 With banquet-song, and dance, 
 
 and wine; 
 And thou art terrible — the tear, 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the 
 
 bier. 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear, 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 Has won the battle for the free. 
 
HALLECK. 
 
 249 
 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's 
 
 word ; 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 Come, when his task of fame is 
 
 wrought — 
 Come with her laurel-leaf, blood- 
 bought — 
 Come in her crowning hour — and 
 then 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 
 Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 Of brother in a foreign land ; 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 When the land-wind, from woods of 
 
 palm. 
 And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
 Blew o'er the Haytien seas. 
 
 Bozzaris ! with the storied brave, 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Rest thee — there is no prouder grave. 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its 
 plume. 
 Like torn branch from death's leaf- 
 less tree. 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb : 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved and for a season gone. 
 For thee her poets' lyre is wreathed. 
 Her marble wrought, her music 
 
 breathed : 
 For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells : 
 For thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace couch, and cottage bed; 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 For him, the joy of her young years. 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her 
 tears. 
 
 And she, the mother of thy boys, 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her buried joys. 
 
 And even she who gave thee birth, 
 Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh : 
 For thou art Freedom's now, ami 
 
 Fame's, 
 One of the few, the immortal names 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
 B URNS. 
 
 W11.D rose of Alloway! my thanks; 
 
 Thou mind'st me of that autumn 
 noon 
 When first we met upon " the banks 
 
 And bi-aes o' bonny Doon." 
 
 Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's 
 bough. 
 My sunny hour was glad and brief 
 We've crossed the winter sea, and 
 thou 
 Art withered — flower and leaf. 
 
 And will not thy death-doom l)e 
 mine — 
 The doom of all things wrought of 
 clay ? 
 And withered my life's leaf like 
 thine. 
 Wild rose of Alloway ? 
 
 Not so his memory for whose sake 
 My bosom bore thee far and long. 
 
 His, who a humbler flower could 
 make 
 Immortal as his song. 
 
 The memory of Bums — a name 
 That calls, when brimmed her fes- 
 tal cup, 
 
 A nation's glory and her shame. 
 In silent sadness up. 
 
 A nation's glory — be the rest 
 
 Forgot — she's canonized his mind, 
 
 And it is joy to speak the best 
 We may of humankind. 
 
 I've stood beside the cottage-bed 
 Where the bard-peasant first drew 
 breath : 
 
250 
 
 HALLECK. 
 
 A straw-thatched roof above his 
 head, 
 A straw-wrought couch beneath. 
 
 And I have stood beside the pile, 
 His monument — that tells to heaven 
 
 The homage of earth's proudest isle 
 To that bard-peasant given. 
 
 Bid thy thoughts hover o'er that 
 spot. 
 Boy-minstrel, in thy dreaming 
 hour; 
 And know, however low his lot, 
 A poet's pride and power; 
 
 The pride that lifted Burns from 
 earth. 
 The power that gave a child of 
 song 
 Ascendency o'er rank and birth, 
 The rich, the brave, the strong; 
 
 And if despondency weigh down 
 Thy spirit's fluttering pinions then, 
 
 Despair — thy name is written on 
 Tlie roll of common men. 
 
 There have been loftier themes than 
 his. 
 
 And longer scrolls, and louder lyres. 
 And lays lit up Avith Poesy's 
 
 Purer and holier fires; 
 
 Yet read the names that know not 
 death ; 
 Few nobler ones than Burns are 
 there ; 
 And few have won a greener wreath 
 Than that which binds his hair. 
 
 His is that language of the heart 
 In which the answering heart would 
 speak. 
 Thought, word, that bids the warm 
 tear start. 
 Or the smile light the cheek ; 
 
 And his that music to whose tone 
 The common pulse of man keeps 
 time. 
 
 In cot or castle's mirth or moan. 
 In cold or sunny clime. 
 
 And who hath heard his song, nor 
 knelt 
 
 Before its spell with willing knee, 
 And listened, and believed, and felt 
 
 The poet's mastery 
 
 O'er the mind's sea, in calm and 
 storm. 
 O'er the heart's sunshine and its 
 showers. 
 O'er Passion's moments, bright and 
 warm, 
 O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; 
 
 On fields where brave men "die or 
 do," 
 In halls where rings the banquet's 
 mirth, 
 Where mourners weep, where lovers 
 woo, 
 From throne to cottage hearth ? 
 
 What sweet tears dim the eye unshed. 
 What wild vows falter on the 
 tongue. 
 When "(Scots wha hae wi' AVallace 
 bled," 
 Or " Auld Lang Syne," is sung! 
 
 Pure hopes, that lift the soul above. 
 Come with his Cotter's hymn of 
 praise, 
 And dreams of youth, and truth, and 
 love 
 With "Logan's" banks and braes. 
 
 And when he breathes his master-lay 
 Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, 
 
 All passions in our frames of clay 
 Come thronging at his call. 
 
 Imagination's world of air. 
 
 And our own world, its gloom and 
 glee. 
 Wit, pathos, poetry, are there. 
 
 And death's sublimity. 
 
 And Burns, though brief the race he 
 ran. 
 Though rough and dark the path 
 he trod — 
 Lived, died, in form and soul a man, 
 The image of his God. 
 
HALLECK. 
 
 251 
 
 Tlirough care, and pain, and want, 
 and woe, 
 With woimds that only death could 
 heal. 
 Tortures the poor alone can know. 
 The proud alone can feel ; 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth, 
 His independent tongue and pen. 
 
 And moved, in manhood as in youth. 
 Pride of his fellow-men. 
 
 Strong sense, deep feeling, passions 
 strong, 
 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 
 
 Of coward and of slave ; 
 
 A kind, true heart, a spirit high. 
 That could not fear and would not 
 
 AVere written in his manly eye 
 And on his manly brow. 
 
 Piaise to the bard! his words are 
 driven, 
 Like flower-seeds by the far winds 
 sown, 
 Where'er, beneath the sky of heaven, 
 The birds of fame have flown. 
 
 Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
 Beside his coffin with wet eyes, 
 
 Her brave, her beautiful, her good. 
 As when a loved one dies. 
 
 And still, as on his funeral-day. 
 Men stand his cold earth-couch 
 around, 
 
 With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And consecrated ground it is, 
 The last, the hallowed home of 
 one 
 
 Who lives upon all memories, 
 Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines. 
 Shrines to no code or creed con- 
 fined — 
 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Meccas of the mind. 
 
 Sages, with Wisdom's garland 
 wreathed. 
 Crowned kings, and mitred priests 
 of power. 
 And warriors with their bright swords 
 sheathed. 
 The mightiest of the hour. 
 
 And lowlier names, whose humble 
 home 
 Is lit by fortune's dimmer star. 
 Are there — o'er wave and mountain 
 come. 
 From coiuitries near and far ; 
 
 Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have 
 pressed [sand. 
 
 The Switzer's snow, the Arab's 
 Or trod the piled leaves of the west, 
 
 My own green forest land. 
 
 All ask the cottage of his birth. 
 Gaze on the scenes he loved and 
 sung. 
 
 And gather feelings not of earth 
 His field and streams among. 
 
 They linger by the Doon's low trees. 
 And pastoral Nith, and wooded 
 Ayr, 
 And round thy sepulchres, Dum- 
 fries ! 
 The Poet's tomb is there. 
 
 But what to them the sculptor's art. 
 His funeral columns, wreaths, and 
 urns ? 
 
 Wear they not graven on the heart 
 The name of Robert Burns ? 
 
 ON 
 
 THE DEATH OF JOSEPH ROD- 
 MAN DRAKE. 
 
 Green be the turf above thee, 
 Friend of my better days! 
 
 None knew thee but to love thee, 
 Nor named thee but to praise. 
 
 Tears fell, when thou wert dying. 
 From eyes unused to weep. 
 
 And long where thou art lying, 
 Will tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 ^ 
 
^ii^' 
 
 252 
 
 HARTE. 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was prov- 
 en, 
 
 Like thine, are laid in earth, 
 Tliere should a wreath be woven 
 
 To tell the world their worth; 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 
 Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
 Whose weal and wo were thine ; 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 
 Around thy faded brow, 
 But I've in vain essayed it. 
 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee, 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free, 
 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
 Francis Bret Harte. 
 
 TO A SEA-BIRD. 
 
 Sauntering hither on listless wings, 
 
 Careless vagabond of the sea. 
 Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 
 The bar that thunders, the shale 
 that rings, — 
 Give me to keep thy company. 
 
 Little thou hast, old friend, that's 
 new ; 
 Storjns and wrecks are old things 
 to thee; 
 Sick am I of these changes too; 
 Little to care for, little to rixe, — 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
 All of thy wanderings, far and near. 
 
 Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 
 
 All of my journeyings end them here, 
 
 This our tether must be our cheer, — 
 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
 Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, 
 Something in common, old frend, 
 have we ; 
 Thou on the shingle seekest thy nest, 
 I to the waters look for rest, — 
 I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 
 
 LONE MOUNTAIN CEMETERY. 
 
 This is that hill of awe 
 That Persian Sindbad saAf , — 
 
 The mount magnetic ; 
 And on its seaward face. 
 Scattered along its base, 
 
 The wrecks iDrophetic. 
 
 Here come the argosies 
 Blown by each idle breeze. 
 
 To and fro shifting; 
 Yet to the hill of Fate 
 All drawing, soon or late, — 
 
 Day by day drifting, — 
 
 Drifting forever here 
 Barks that for many a year 
 
 Braved wind and weather; 
 Shallops but yesterday 
 Launched on yon shining bay, — 
 
 Drawn all together. 
 
 This is the end of all : 
 Sun thyself by the wall, 
 
 O poorer Hiudbad! 
 Envy not Sindbad's fame: 
 Here come alike the same, 
 
 Hindbad and Sindbad. 
 
HAY. 
 
 253 
 
 John Hay. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 The skies are blue above my head, 
 
 The j)rairle green below, 
 And flickering o'er the tufted grass 
 
 The shifting shadows go. 
 Vague-sailing, where the feathery 
 clouds 
 
 Fleck white the tranquil skies, 
 Black javelins darting where aloft 
 
 The whirling pheasant flies. 
 
 A glimmering plain in drowsy trance 
 
 The dim horizon bounds. 
 Where all the air is resonant 
 
 With sleepy summer sounds. 
 The life that sings among the flowers, 
 
 The lisping of the breeze, 
 The hot cicala's sultry cry. 
 
 The murmurous dreamy bees. 
 
 The butterfly, — a flying flower — 
 
 Wheels swift in flashing rings, 
 And flutters round his quiet kin. 
 
 With brave flame-mottled wings. 
 The wild pinks burst in crimson fire, 
 
 The jjlilox' bright clusters shine, 
 And prairie-cups are swinging free 
 
 To spill their airy wine. 
 
 And lavishly beneath the sun. 
 
 In liberal splendor rolled. 
 The fennel fills the dipping plain 
 
 With floods of flowery gold : 
 And M'idely weaves the iron-weed 
 
 A woof of purple dyes 
 Where Autumn's royal feet may tread 
 
 When bankrupt Summer flies. 
 
 In verdurous tumidt far away 
 
 The prairie-billows gleam. 
 Upon their crests in blessing rests 
 
 The noontide's gracious beam. 
 Low quivering vapors steaming dim, 
 
 The level splendors break 
 Where languid lilies deck the rim 
 
 Of some land-circled lake. 
 
 Far in the East like low-hung clouds 
 The waving woodlands lie : 
 
 Far in the West the glowing plain 
 Melts warjnly in the sky. 
 
 No accent wounds the reverent air. 
 No footprint dints the sod, — 
 
 Low in the light the prairie lies 
 Rapt in a dream of God. 
 
 TN A GRAVE YAIiD. 
 
 Ix the dewy depths of the graveyard 
 
 I lie in the tangled grass. 
 And watch in the sea of azure. 
 
 The white cloud-islands pass. 
 
 The birds in the rustling branches 
 
 Sing gaily overhead ; 
 Gray stones like sentinel spectres 
 
 Are guarding the silent dead. 
 
 The early flowers sleep shaded 
 
 In the cool green noonday glooms ; 
 
 The broken light falls shuddering 
 On the cold white face of the tombs. 
 
 Without, the world is smiling 
 In the infinite love of God, 
 
 But the sunlight fails and falters 
 When it falls on the churchyard 
 sod. 
 
 On me the joyous rapture 
 Of a heart's first love is shed, 
 
 But it falls on my heart as coldly 
 As sunlight on the dead. 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 Sad is the thought of sunniest days 
 
 Of love and I'apture perished. 
 And shine through memory's tearful 
 haze 
 
 The eyes once fondliest cherished. 
 Reproachful is the ghost of toys 
 
 That channed while life was 
 wasted. 
 But saddest is the thought of joys 
 
 That never yet were tasted. 
 
254 
 
 HAY. 
 
 Sail is tlie vague and tender dream 
 
 " I loved, — and, blind with passion- 
 
 Of dead love's lingering kisses, 
 
 ate love, I fell. 
 
 To crushed hearts haloed by the 
 
 Love brought me down to death, and 
 
 gleam 
 
 death to Hell. 
 
 Of unreturning blisses ; 
 
 For God is just, and death for sin is 
 
 Deep mourns the soul in anguished 
 
 well. 
 
 pride 
 
 
 For the pitiless death that won 
 
 " I do not rage against his high de- 
 
 them, — 
 
 cree, 
 
 But the saddest wail is for lips that 
 
 Nor for myself do ask that grace shall 
 
 died 
 
 be: 
 
 With the virgin dew upon them. 
 
 But for my love on earth who mom-ns 
 
 
 for me. 
 
 
 "Great Spirit! Let me see my love 
 
 ON THE BLUFF. 
 
 again 
 
 
 And comfort him one hour, and I 
 
 O GKAND1.Y flowing River! 
 
 were fain 
 
 O silver-gliding River! 
 
 To pay a thousand years of fire and 
 
 Thy springing willows shiver 
 
 pain." 
 
 In the sunset as of old ; 
 
 
 They shiver in the silence 
 
 Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, 
 
 Of the willow-whitened islands. 
 
 repent 
 
 While the sun-bars and the sand-bars 
 
 That wild vow! Look, the dial fin- 
 
 Fill air and wave with gold. 
 
 ger's bent 
 
 
 Down to the last hour of thy punish- 
 
 O gay, oblivious River ! 
 
 ment! " 
 
 O sunset-kindled River! 
 
 
 Do you remember ever 
 
 But still she wailed, "I jiray thee, let 
 
 The eyes and skies so blue 
 
 me go! 
 
 On a summer day that shone here, 
 
 I cannot rise to peace and leave him 
 
 When we were all alone here. 
 
 so. 
 
 And the blue eyes were too wise 
 
 O, let me soothe him in his bitter 
 
 To speak the love they knew ? 
 
 woe! " 
 
 O stern impassive River ! 
 
 The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, 
 
 O still unanswering River ! 
 
 And upward, joyous, like a rising 
 
 The shivering willows quiver 
 
 star. 
 
 As the night-winds moan and rave. 
 
 She rose and vanished in the ether 
 
 From the past a voice is calling, 
 
 far. 
 
 From heaven a star is falling, 
 
 
 And dew swells in the bluebells 
 
 But soon adown the dying sunset 
 
 Above her hillside grave. 
 
 sailing, 
 
 
 And like a woimded bird her pinions 
 
 
 trail in"'. 
 
 
 She fluttered back, with broken- 
 
 A IFOMAX'S LOVE. 
 
 hearted wailing. 
 
 A SENTINEL angel sitting high in 
 
 She sobbed, " I found him by the 
 
 glory 
 
 summer sea 
 
 Heard this shrill wail ring out from 
 
 Reclined, his head upon a maiden's 
 
 Purgatory : 
 
 knee, — 
 
 " Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my 
 
 She curled his hair and kissed him. 
 
 story ! 
 
 Woe is me! " 
 
HAYNE. 
 
 255 
 
 She wept. " Now let my punish- 
 ment begin ! 
 
 I have been fond and foolisli. Let 
 me in 
 
 To expiate my sorrow and my sin."' 
 
 Tlie angel answered, " Nay, sad soul, 
 
 go higher! 
 To be deceived in your true heart's 
 
 desire 
 Was bitterer than a thousand years of 
 
 fire! " 
 
 LAG RIM AS. 
 
 God send me tears ! 
 Loose the fierce band that binds my 
 
 tired brain, 
 Give me tlie melting heart of other 
 years, 
 And let me weep again ! 
 
 Before me pass 
 The shapes of things inexorably true. 
 Gone is the sparkle of transforming 
 dew 
 
 From every blade of grass. 
 
 In life's high noon 
 Aimless I stand, my promised task 
 
 undone. 
 And raise my hot eyes to the angiy 
 sun 
 That will go down too soon. 
 
 Turned into gall 
 Are the sweet joys of childhood's 
 
 sunny reign ; 
 And memory is a torture, love a 
 chain 
 That binds my life in thrall. 
 
 And childhood's pain 
 Could to me now the purest rapture 
 
 yield; 
 I pray for tears as in his parching 
 field 
 The husbandman for rain. 
 
 We pray in vain! 
 The sullen sky flings down its blaze 
 
 of brass ; 
 The joys of life all scorched and 
 withering pass ; 
 I shall not weep again. 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
 
 A SUMMER MOOD. 
 
 Ah me ! for evermore, for evermore 
 These human hearts of om-s must 
 yearn and sigh. 
 While down the dells and up the 
 murmurous shore 
 Nature renews her immortality. 
 
 The heavens of June stretch calm and 
 bland above, 
 June roses blush with tints of ori- 
 ent skies. 
 But we, by graves of joy, desire, and 
 love. 
 Mourn in a world which breathes 
 of Paradise ! 
 
 The simshiue mocks the tears it may 
 
 not dry, 
 The breezes — tricksy couriers of the 
 
 air, — 
 
 Child-roisterers winged, and lightly 
 fluttering by — 
 Blow their gay trumpets in the face 
 of care ; 
 
 And bolder winds, the deep sky's 
 jaassionate speech. 
 Woven into rhythmic raptures of 
 desire, 
 Or fugues of mystic victory, sadly 
 reach 
 Our humbled souls, to rack, not 
 raise them higher! 
 
 The field-birds seem to twit us as tbey 
 pass 
 With their small blisses, piped so 
 clear and loud ; 
 The cricket triumphs o'er us in the 
 grass, 
 And the lark, glancing beamlike up 
 the cloud. 
 
256 
 
 HAYNE. 
 
 Sings us to scorn with his keen rhap- 
 sodies: 
 Small things and great vmconscioiis 
 tauntings bring 
 To edge our cares, while we, the 
 jjroud and wise, 
 Envy the insect's joy, the birdling's 
 wing ! 
 
 And thus for evermore, till time shall 
 cease. 
 Man's soul and Nature's — each a 
 separate sphere — 
 Revolves, the one in discord, one in 
 peace. 
 And who shall make the solemn 
 mystery clear ? 
 
 BY THE AUTUMN SEA. 
 
 Fair as the dawn of the fairest day, 
 .Sad as the evening's tender gray, 
 By the latest lustre of sunset kissed. 
 That wavers and wanes through an 
 
 amber mist, — 
 There cometh a dream of the past to 
 
 me. 
 On the desert sands, by the autumn 
 
 sea. 
 
 All heaven is wrapped in a mystic 
 
 veil. 
 And the face of the ocean is dim and 
 
 pale. 
 And there rises a wind from the chill 
 
 northwest. 
 That seeineth the wail of a soul's 
 
 unrest. 
 As the twilight falls, and the vapors 
 
 flee 
 Far over the wastes of the autumn 
 
 sea. 
 
 A single ship through the gloaming 
 
 glides 
 Upborne on the swell of the seaward 
 
 tides; 
 And above the gleam of her topmost 
 
 spar 
 Are the virgin eyes of the vesper star 
 That shine with an angel's ruth on 
 
 me, — 
 A hopeless waif, by the autumn sea. 
 
 The wings of the ghostly beach-birds 
 gleam 
 
 Through the shimmering surf, and 
 the curlew's scream 
 
 Falls faintly shrill from the darkeniug 
 height ; 
 
 The first weird sigh on the lips of 
 Night 
 
 Breathes low through the sedge and 
 the blasted tree. 
 
 With a murnuir of doom, by the au- 
 tumn sea. 
 
 Oh, sky-enshadowed and yearning 
 main. 
 
 Your gloom but deepens this hmudn 
 I)ain ; 
 
 Those waves seem big with a name- 
 less care. 
 
 That sky is a type of the heart's 
 despair. 
 
 As I linger and muse by the sombre 
 lea. 
 
 And the night-shades close on the 
 autumn sea. 
 
 THE WOODLAXD. 
 
 Yon woodland, like a human mind. 
 Has many a phase of dark and 
 light; 
 Now dim with shadows wandering 
 blind, 
 Now radiant with fair shapes of 
 light; 
 
 They softly come, they softly go. 
 Capricious as the vagrant wind, — 
 
 Nature's vague thoughts in gloom or 
 glow, 
 That leave no airiest trace behind. 
 
 No trace, no trace; yet wherefore 
 thus 
 Do shade and beam our spirits 
 stir? 
 Ah! Nature may be cold to us. 
 
 But we are strangely moved by her ! 
 
 The wild bird's strain, the breezy 
 spray. 
 Each hour with sure earth-changes 
 rife, 
 
HAYNE. 
 
 257 
 
 Hint more than all the sages say, 
 Or poets sing, of death or life! 
 
 For, truth half drawn from Nature's 
 breast, 
 Through subtlest types of form and 
 tone, 
 Outweigh what man at most hath 
 guessed, 
 While heeding his own heart alone. 
 
 And midway betwixt heaven and us 
 Stands Nature, in her fadeless grace. 
 
 Still pointing to our Father's house. 
 His glory on her mystic face! 
 
 WINDLESS BAIN. 
 
 The rain, the desolate rain! 
 
 Ceaseless, and solemn, and chill ! 
 How it drips on the misty pane, 
 
 IIow it drenches the darkened sill! 
 O scene of sorrow and dearth! 
 
 I would that the wind awaking 
 To a fierce and gusty birth 
 
 Might vary this dull refrain 
 Of the rain, the desolate rain: 
 
 For the heart of heaven seems 
 breaking 
 In tears o'er the fallen earth, 
 
 And again, again, again. 
 
 We list to the sombre strain. 
 The faint, cold, monotone — 
 Whose soul is a mystic moan — 
 Of the rain, the mournful rain. 
 The soft, despairing rain ! 
 
 The rain, the murmurous rain ! 
 
 Weary, passionless, slow, 
 'T is the rhythm of settled sorroM'. 
 
 'T is the sobbing of cureless woe! 
 And all the tragic life. 
 
 The pathos of Long-Ago, 
 Comes back on the sad refrain 
 Of the rain, the dreary rain. 
 Till the graves in my heart unclose 
 
 And the dead who are bm'ied there 
 From a solemn and weird repose 
 
 Awake, — but with eyeballs drear, 
 And voices that melt in pain 
 On the tide of the plaintive rain. 
 The yearning, hopeless rain. 
 The long, low, whispering rain ? 
 
 THE STING OF DEATH. 
 
 I FEAR thee not, O Death! nay, oft 
 
 I pine 
 To clasp thy passionless bosom to 
 
 mine own, — 
 And on thy heart sob out my latest 
 
 moan. 
 Ere lapped and lost in thy strange 
 
 sleep divine; 
 But much I fear lest that chill breath 
 
 of thine 
 Should freeze all tender memories 
 
 into stone, — 
 Lest ruthless and malign Oblivion 
 Quench the last spark that lingers on 
 
 love's shrine: — 
 O God! to moidder through dark, 
 
 dateless years, — 
 The while all loving ministries shall 
 
 cease, 
 And Time assuage the fondest mourn- 
 er's tears! — 
 Here lies the sting! — this, ooks of familiar love, that never 
 more, 
 Xever on earth, our acliing eyes 
 shall meet. 
 Past words of welcome to our house- 
 hold door. 
 And vanished smiles, and sounds 
 of parted feet, — 
 Spring, midst the murmurs of thy 
 flowering trees, 
 Wliy, why rev i vest tliou these ? 
 
 Vain longings for the dead! — why 
 come they back 
 With tliy young birds, and leaves, 
 and living blooms ? 
 Oh, is it not that from thine earthly 
 track 
 Hope to thy world may look be- 
 yond the tombs '? 
 Yes, gentle Spring; no sorrow dims 
 thine air, 
 Breathed by our loved ones 
 there. 
 
HEMANS. 
 
 2t>l 
 
 THE INVOCATION. 
 
 Answer me, burning stars of night I 
 
 Wliere is the spirit gone, 
 Tliat past tlie reacli of liuman sight, 
 
 Even as a breeze, hath flown ? 
 And tlie stars answered me, —"We 
 roll 
 
 In light and power on high, 
 But, of the never-dying soul, 
 
 Ask things that cannot die!" 
 
 Oh ! many-toned and chaiuless Avind ! 
 
 Thou art a wanderer free ; 
 Tell me if thou its place canst find, 
 
 Far over mount and sea ? 
 And the Mind murnuu'ed in reply, 
 
 " The blue deep 1 have crossed, 
 And met its barks and billows high. 
 
 But not what thou hast lost!" 
 
 Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 
 
 Around the setting sun, 
 Answer! have ye a liome for those 
 
 Whose earthly race is run ? 
 The bright clouds answered, — *'We 
 depart, 
 
 We vanish from the sky ; 
 Ask what is deathless in thy heart 
 
 For that which cannot die! " 
 
 Speak, then, thou voice of (iod 
 within ! 
 Thou of the deep low tone! 
 Answer me through life's restless din, 
 
 Where is the spirit flown ? 
 And the voice answered, "Be thou 
 still ! 
 Enough to know is given ; 
 Clouds, winds, and stars their task 
 fulfil; 
 Thine is to trust in Heaven! " 
 
 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 
 
 Lkaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north- 
 wind's breath, 
 And stars to set, — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
 oh! Death. 
 
 Day is for mortal care, 
 Eve for glad meetings round the joy- 
 ous hearth. 
 Night for the dreams of sleep, the 
 voice of prayer, — 
 But all for thee, thou mightiest of 
 the earth. 
 
 The banquet hath its hour. 
 Its feverish hoin- of mirth, and song, 
 and wine ; 
 There comes a day for grief's o'er- 
 whelming power, 
 A time for softer tears, — but all are 
 thine. 
 
 Youth and the opening rose 
 May look like things too glorious for 
 decay. 
 And smiie at thee, — but thou art 
 not of those 
 That wait the ripened bloom to seize 
 their prey. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north- 
 wind's breath. 
 And stars to set, — but all. 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
 oh! Death. 
 
 We know when moons shall Avane. 
 When summer-birds from far shall 
 cross the sea, 
 When autumn's hue shall tinge the 
 golden grain, — 
 But who shall teach us when to look 
 for thee ? 
 
 Is it when spring's first gale 
 Comes forth to whisper where the 
 violets lie ? 
 Is it when roses in our paths grow 
 pale y 
 They have one season, — all are ours 
 to die! 
 
 Thou art where billows foam, 
 Thou art where music melts upon the 
 air; 
 Thou art around us in ourj^eaceful 
 home. 
 And the world calls us forth, — and 
 thou art thei'e. 
 
262 
 
 HEMANS. 
 
 Thou art where friend meets friend, 
 Beneath the shadow of the ehn to 
 rest, — 
 Tliou art where foe meets foe, and 
 trumpets rend 
 The skies, and swords beat down the 
 princely crest. 
 
 Leaves have tlieir time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north- 
 wind's breath. 
 And stars to set, — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
 oh! Death. 
 
 EVENING PliAYER AT A GIRLS' 
 SCHOOL. 
 
 Hush! 'tis a holy hour, — the quiet 
 room 
 Seems like a temple, while yon 
 soft lamp sheds 
 
 A faint and starry radiance, through 
 the gloom 
 And the sweet stillness, down on 
 bright young heads. 
 
 With all their clustering locks, un- 
 touched by care. 
 
 And bowed, as flowers are bowed 
 with night, — in prayer. 
 
 Gaze on, — 'tis lovely! — childhood's 
 lip and cheek. 
 Mantling beneath its earnest brow 
 of thought. 
 
 Gaze, — yet what seest thou in those 
 fair, and meek, 
 And fragile things, as but for sun- 
 shine wrought ? 
 
 Thou seest what grief must nurtm-e 
 for the sky, 
 
 What death must fashion for eternity ! 
 
 Oh ! joyous creatures, that will sink 
 to rest. 
 Lightly, when those pure orisons 
 are done. 
 As birds with slumber's honey-dew 
 oppressed, 
 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set 
 of sun, — 
 
 Lift up your hearts! — though yet no 
 
 sorrow lies 
 Dark in the summer-heaven of those 
 
 clear eyes ; 
 
 Though fresh within your breasts the 
 untroubled springs 
 Of hope make melody where'er ye 
 tread ; 
 
 And o'er your sleep bright shadows, 
 from the wings 
 Of spirits visiting but youth, be 
 spread ; 
 
 Yet in those flute-like voices, ming- 
 ling low, 
 
 Is woman's tenderness, — how soon 
 her woe. 
 
 Iler lot is on you, — silent tears to 
 weep. 
 And patient smiles to wear through 
 suffering's hour, 
 
 And sumless riches, from affection's 
 deep, 
 To pour on broken I'eeds, — a wasted 
 shower! [clay. 
 
 And to make idols, and to find them 
 
 And to bewail that worship, — there- 
 fore pray! 
 
 Her lot is on you, — to be found un- 
 
 tired. 
 Watching the stars out by the bed 
 
 of pain, 
 With a pale cheek, and yet a brow 
 
 inspired. 
 And a true heart of hope, though 
 
 hope be vain. [decay. 
 
 Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer 
 And oh ! to love through all things, — 
 
 therefore pray ! 
 
 And take the thought of this calm 
 
 vesper time, 
 With its low miu'muring sounds 
 
 and silvery light. 
 On through the dark days fading from 
 
 their prime. 
 As a sweet dew to keep your souls 
 
 from bliglit. 
 Earth will forsake,— oh! happy to 
 
 have given 
 The unbroken heart's first fragrance 
 
 unto Heaven! 
 
HERBERT. 
 
 263 
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high. 
 
 On a stern and rocic-bound coast, 
 And tlie woods against a stormy sky 
 
 Their giant brandies tossed ; 
 
 And the lieavy niglit hung dark 
 
 The liills and waters o'er, 
 When a band of exiles moored their 
 bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted came; 
 Not with the roll of the stirring 
 drums, 
 And the trumpet that sings of 
 fame; 
 
 Not as the flying come, 
 
 In silence and in fear; — 
 They shook the depths of the desert 
 gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 And the stars heard, and the sea; 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim 
 woods rang 
 To the anthem of the free! 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's 
 foam ; 
 And the rocking pines of the forest 
 roared — 
 This was their welcome home ! 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 Amidst that pilgrim band: 
 
 Why had they come to wither there. 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye. 
 Lit by her deep love's truth; 
 
 There was manhood's brow serenely 
 high. 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of 
 war ? — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground. 
 The soil where first they trod. 
 
 They liave left unstained what there 
 they found — 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 CALM ON THE liOSOM OF OUR 
 GOD. 
 
 Calm on the bosom of our God, 
 Fair spirit! rest thee now! 
 
 E'en while with us thy footsteps trod, 
 His seal was on thy brow. 
 
 Dust to its narrow house beneath ! 
 
 Soul to its place on high! 
 They that have seen thy look in death 
 
 No more may fear to die. 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 THE PULLEY. 
 
 When God at first made man, 
 Having a glass of blessing standing 
 
 by: 
 Let us (said he) pour on him all we 
 
 can : 
 Let the world's riches, which dispersed 
 lie. 
 Contract into a span. 
 
 So strength first made a way ; 
 Then beauty fiow'd, then wisdom, 
 
 honor, pleasure: 
 When almost all was out, God made 
 
 a stay, 
 Perceiving that alone, of all his 
 treasure. 
 Rest in the bottom lay. 
 
•264 
 
 HERBERT. 
 
 For If I should (said he) 
 Bestow this jewel also on my crea- 
 ture, 
 He would adore my gifts instead of 
 
 me, 
 And rest in Nature, not the God of 
 Nature : 
 So both should losers be. 
 
 Yet let him keep the rest, 
 But keep them with rcpinuig restless- 
 ness : 
 Let him be rich and weary, that at 
 
 least, 
 If goodness lead him not, yet weari- 
 ness 
 May toss him to my breast. 
 
 [From the Cliurch Porch ] 
 ADVICE ON CHURCH BEHAVIOR. 
 
 When once thy foot enters the 
 church, be bare. 
 
 God is more tliere than thou : for thou 
 art there 
 
 Only by his permission. Then be- 
 ware. 
 
 And make thyself all reverence and 
 fear. 
 
 Kneeling ne'er spoil'd silk stock- 
 ings : quit thy state. 
 
 All equal are within the church's 
 gate. 
 
 Resort to sermons, but to prayers 
 
 most: 
 Praying's the end of preaching. O 
 
 be drest; 
 Stay not for the other pin: why thou 
 
 hast lost 
 A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell 
 
 doth jest 
 Away thy blessings, and extremely 
 
 flout thee. 
 Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul 
 
 loose about tliee. 
 
 In time of service seal up both thine 
 
 eyes. 
 And send them to thine heart; that 
 
 spying sin, 
 
 They may weep out the stains by 
 
 them did rise: 
 Those doors being shut, all by the 
 ear comes in. 
 Who marks in church-time other 
 
 symmetry. 
 Makes all their beauty his de- 
 formity. 
 
 Let vain or busy thoughts have there 
 no part : 
 
 Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy 
 pleasure thither 
 
 Christ purged the temple; so must 
 thou thy heart. 
 
 All Worldly thoughts are but these 
 met together 
 To cozen thee. Look to thy ac- 
 tions well : 
 For churches either are our heaven 
 or hell. 
 
 Judge not the preacher ; for he is thy 
 judge: 
 
 If thou mislike him, thou conceivest 
 him not. 
 
 God calleth preaching folly. Do not 
 grudge 
 
 To pick out treasures from an earthen 
 pot. 
 The worst speak something good : 
 
 if all want sense, 
 God takes a text and preaches pa- 
 tience. 
 
 [From the Church Pot-ch.] 
 SUM UP AT NIGHT. 
 
 StJM up at night, what thou hast 
 done by day ; 
 
 And in the morning, what thou hast 
 to do. 
 
 Dress and undress thy soul: mark 
 the decay 
 
 And growth of it: if with thy watch 
 that too 
 Be down, then wind up both, since 
 
 we sliall be 
 Most surely judged, make thy ac- 
 counts agree. 
 
HEBRICK. 
 
 265 
 
 In brief, acquit thee bravely ; play the 
 
 man, 
 Look not on pleasures as they come, 
 
 but go. 
 Defer not the least virtue; life's poor 
 
 span 
 Make not an ell, by triflinii' in thy wo. 
 If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the 
 
 pains : 
 If well ; the pain doth fade, the joy 
 
 remains. 
 
 BOSOM SIN. 
 
 Lord, with what care hast thou be- 
 girt us round ! 
 Parents first season us : then school- 
 masters 
 Deliver us to laws: they send us 
 bound 
 To rules of reason, holy messengers. 
 
 Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging 
 sin, 
 Afflictions sorted, anguish of all 
 
 sizes. 
 Fine nets and stratagems to catch 
 us in. 
 Bibles laid open, millions of sur- 
 prises, 
 
 Blessings beforehand, ties of grate- 
 fulness. 
 The sound of glory ringing in our 
 ears ; 
 
 Without, our shame; within, our 
 consciences; 
 Angels and grace, eternal hopes and 
 fears. 
 
 Yet all these fences and their whole 
 
 array 
 One cunning bosom-sin blows quite 
 
 away. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Sw^EET day, so cool, so calm, so 
 
 bright. 
 The bridal of the earth and sky; 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet rose, whose hue angry and 
 
 brave 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its grave. 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet spring, full of sweet days and 
 
 roses. 
 A box where sweets compacted lie. 
 My music shows ye have your closes, 
 And all must die. 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
 Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
 But though the whole world turn to 
 coal, 
 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 Robert Herrick. 
 
 TO PERILLA. 
 
 Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to 
 
 see 
 Me, day by day, to steal away from 
 
 thee ? 
 Age calls me hence, and my gray 
 
 hairs bid come. 
 And haste away to mine eternal 
 
 home; 
 
 'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this 
 That I must give thee the supremest 
 
 kiss. 
 Dead when I am, first cast in salt, 
 
 and bring [spring. 
 
 Part of the cream from that religious 
 With which, Perilla, wash my hands 
 
 and feet ; 
 That done, then wind me in that 
 
 very sheet 
 
266 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 Which wrapt, thy smooth Hmbs when 
 
 thou didst implore 
 The gods' protection, but the niglit 
 
 before ; 
 Follow me weeping to my turf, and 
 
 there 
 Let fall a primrose, and with it a 
 
 tear. 
 Then lastly, let some weekly strew- 
 
 ings be 
 Devoted to the memory of me ; 
 Then shall my ghost not walk about, 
 
 but keep 
 Still in the cool and silent shades of 
 
 sleep. 
 
 THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 Ask me why I send you here 
 This sweet infanta of the year '? 
 Ask me why I send to you 
 This primrose, thus bepearled with 
 
 dew? 
 1 will whisper to your ears. 
 The sweets of love are mixed with 
 
 tears. 
 Ask me why this flower does show 
 So yellow green and sickly too ? 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ? 
 I will answer, these discover 
 What fainting hopes are in a lover. 
 
 THREE EPITAPHS. 
 UPON A CHILI) 
 
 Here she lies, a pretty bud, 
 Lately made of flesh and blood; 
 Who so soon fell fast asleep 
 As her little eyes did peep. 
 Give her strewings, but not stir. 
 The earth that lightly covers her ! 
 
 L7PON A CHILD. 
 
 Virgins promised when I died. 
 That they would, each primrose-tide, 
 Duly morn and evening come. 
 And with flowers dress my tomb : 
 Having promised, pay your debts, 
 Maids, and here strew violets. 
 
 UPON A MAID. 
 
 Here she lies, in beds of spice. 
 Fair as Eve in paradise; 
 For her beauty it was such. 
 Poets could not praise too much. 
 Virgins," come, and in a ring 
 Her supremest requiem sing; , 
 Then depart, but see ye tread 
 Lightly, lightly o'er the dead. 
 
 HOW THE HEART- S EASE FIRST 
 CAME. 
 
 Frolic virgins once these were, 
 Over-loving, living here; 
 Being here their ends denied, 
 Kan for sweethearts mad and died. 
 Love, in pity of their tears. 
 And their loss of blooming years. 
 For their restless here-spent hours, 
 Gave them heart' s-ease turned to 
 flowers. 
 
 LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 
 
 In the hour of my distress 
 When temptations me oppress. 
 And when I my sins confess. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When I lie within my bed. 
 Sick at heart, and sick in head, 
 And with doubts discomforted, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 
 
 When the house doth sigh and weep, 
 And the world is drowned in sleep. 
 Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 
 
 When the artless doctor sees 
 No one hope, but of his fees, 
 And his skill runs on the lees, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When his potion and his pill, 
 His or none or little skill, 
 Meet for nothing, but to kill — 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me! 
 
HERVEY. 
 
 267 
 
 \A'lien the passing bell doth toll, 
 And the Furies, in a shoal, 
 Come to fright a parting soul, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the tapers now burn blue. 
 And the comforters are few. 
 And that number more than true, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the priest his last hath prayed. 
 And I nod to what he said 
 Because my speech is now decayed. 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When, God knows, I'm tost about 
 Either with despair or doubt. 
 Yet before the glass be out, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 Wlien the Tempter me pursu'th. 
 With the sins of all my youth. 
 And half damns me with untruth 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the flames and hellish cries 
 Fright mine ears, and fright mine 
 
 eyes, 
 And all terrors me surprise. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When the judgment is revealed. 
 And that opened which was sealed — 
 When to Thee I have appealed. 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. 
 
 Is this a fast — to keep 
 The larder lean. 
 And clean 
 From fat of veals and sheep ? 
 
 Is it to quit the dish 
 
 Of flesh, vet still 
 To m 
 The platter high with fish ? 
 
 Is it to fast an hour — 
 Or ragged go — 
 Or show 
 A downcast look, and sour ? 
 
 No! 'tis a fast to dole 
 
 Thy sheaf of wheat, 
 And meat. 
 Unto the hungry soul. 
 
 It is to fast from strife. 
 From old debate, 
 And hate — 
 To circumcise thy life. 
 
 To show a heart grief-rent; 
 To starve thy sin, 
 Not bin — 
 And that's to keep thy Lent. 
 
 Thomas Kibble Hervey. 
 
 CLEOPATRA EMBARKING ON THE 
 CYDNUS. I 
 
 Fi.uTES in the sunny air! 
 And harps in the porphyry 
 halls! I 
 
 And a low, deep hum like a people's I 
 prayer. 
 With its heart-breathed swells and 
 falls! 
 And an echo like the desert's call, 
 
 Flung back to the shouting shores! 
 And the river's ripple heard through 
 all. 
 As it plays with the silver oars! — 
 
 The sky is a gleam of gold, 
 And the amber breezes float 
 
 Like thoughts to be dreamed of, but 
 never told. 
 Around the dancing boat! 
 
 She has stepped on the burning sand ; 
 And the thousand tongues are 
 mute, 
 And the Syrian strikes with a trem- 
 bling hand 
 The strings of his gilded lute! 
 And the Ethiop's heart throbs loud 
 and high 
 Beneath his white syraar, 
 
268 
 
 HEYWOOD. 
 
 And the Libyan kneels, as he meets 
 her eye, 
 Like tlie flasli of an eastern star! 
 Tlie gales may not be heard, 
 
 Yet the silken streamers quiver. 
 And the vessel shoots, like a bright- 
 plumed bird. 
 Away down the golden river ! 
 
 Away by the lofty mount. 
 
 And away by the lonely shore. 
 And away by the gushing of many a 
 fount. 
 
 Where fountains gush no more! — 
 Oh, for some warning vision there, 
 
 Some voice that should have spoken 
 Of climes to be laid waste and bare 
 
 And glad youjig spirits broken! 
 Of waters dried away. 
 
 And hope and beauty blasted ! 
 That scenes so fair and hearts so gay 
 
 Should be so early wasted ! 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Farewei.i. ! since nevermore for thee 
 The sun comes up our earthly skies. 
 
 Less bright henceforth shall sun- 
 shine be [eyes. 
 To some fond hearts and saddened 
 
 There are who, for thy last long sleep. 
 
 Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore. 
 Must weep because thou canst not 
 
 weep, 
 And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. 
 
 Sad thrift of love! — the loving breast, 
 Whereon thine aching head was 
 thrown. 
 
 Gave up the weary head, to rest. 
 But kept the aching for its own. 
 
 Till pain shall find the same low bed 
 That pillows now thy painless head. 
 And following darkly through the 
 night, I light. 
 
 Love reach thee by the founts of 
 
 Thomas Heywood. 
 
 GOOD-MOPiROW. 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 
 With night we banish sorrow ; 
 
 Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, 
 aloft, 
 To give my love good-morrow, 
 
 Wings from the wind to please her 
 mind, 
 Notes from the lark I'll borrow; 
 
 Bird, prune thy wing,nighlingale,sing, 
 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin red- 
 breast. 
 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow; 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love good-morrow. 
 Blackbird and thrush in every 
 bush. 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow; 
 You pretty elves, among yourselves, 
 
 Sing my fair love good-morrow. 
 
HIGGINSON. — niLLARD. 
 
 269 
 
 Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 
 
 DECORATION. 
 
 " Manihus date lUiaplenis." 
 
 'Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I 
 
 stand, 
 Bearing lilies in my hand. 
 Comrades ! in what soldier-grave 
 Sleeps the bravest of the brave ? 
 Is it he who sank to rest 
 With his colors round his breast ? 
 Friendship makes his tomb a shrine, 
 Garlands veil it ; ask not mine. 
 One lone grave, yon trees beneath. 
 Bears no roses, wears no wreath ; 
 Yet no heart more high and warm 
 Ever dared the battle-storm. 
 
 Never gleamed a prouder eye 
 In the front of victory : 
 
 Never foot had firmer tread 
 On the field where hope lay dead, 
 Than are hid within this tomb. 
 Where the untended grasses bloom; 
 And no stone, with feigned distress. 
 Mocks the sacred loneliness. 
 
 Youth and beauty, dauntless will. 
 Dreams that life could ne'er fulfil, 
 Here lie buried — here in peace 
 Wrongs and woes have found re- 
 lease. 
 
 Turning from my comrades' eyes. 
 Kneeling where a woman lies. 
 I strew lilies on the grave 
 Of the bravest of the brave. 
 
 George Stillman Hillard. 
 
 LAKE GEORGE. 
 
 How oft in visions of the night. 
 How oft in noonday dreaming. 
 I've seen, fair lake, thy forest wave, — 
 Have seen thy waters gleaming; 
 Have heard the blowing of the winds 
 That sweep along thy highlands. 
 And the light laughter of the waves 
 That dance around thine islands. 
 
 It was a landscape of the mind, 
 
 With forms and hues ideal. 
 
 But still those hues and forms ap- 
 peared 
 
 More lovely than aught real. 
 
 I feared to see the breathing scene, 
 
 And brooded o'er the vision. 
 
 Lest the hard touch of truth should 
 mar 
 
 A picture so Elysian. 
 
 But now I break the cold distrust 
 Whose spells so long had bound me ; 
 The shadows of the night are past,— 
 The morning shines around me. 
 
 And in the sober light of day, 
 I see. with eyes enchanted, 
 The glorious vision that so long 
 My day and night dreams haunted. 
 
 I see the green, translucent wave, 
 The purest of earth's fountains: 
 I see the many-winding shore, — 
 The double range of mountains: 
 One, neighbor to the flying clouils, 
 And crowned with leaf and blossom, 
 And one, more lovely, borne within 
 The lake's unruttied bosom. 
 
 O timid heart! with thy glad throbs 
 Some self-reproach is blended. 
 At the long years that died before 
 The sight of scene so splendid. 
 The mind has pictures of its own, 
 Fair trees and waters flowing — 
 But not a magic whole like this. 
 So living, breathing, glowing; 
 
 Strength imaged in the wooded hills, 
 A grand, primeval nature. 
 
270 
 
 HOFFMAN. 
 
 Anil beauty mirrored in the lake, 
 
 A gentler, softer feature ; 
 
 A perfect union, — wliere no want 
 
 Upon the soul is pressing; 
 
 Like manly power and female grace 
 
 Made one by bridal blessing. 
 
 Nor is the stately scene without 
 Its sweet, secluded treasiu-es. 
 Where hearts that shun the crowd 
 
 may find 
 Their own exclusive pleasures ; 
 Deep chasms of shade for pensive 
 
 thought, 
 The hours to wear away in ; 
 And vaulted aisles, of whispering pine. 
 For lovers' feet to stray in ; 
 
 Clear streams that from the uplands 
 
 run, 
 A course of sunless shadow ; 
 Isles all imfurrowed by the i^lough. 
 And strips of fertile meadow ; 
 And rounded coves of silver sand, 
 Where moonlight plays and glances, — 
 A sheltered hall for elfin horns, 
 A floor for elfin dances. 
 
 No tame monotony is here, 
 But beauty ever changing ; 
 
 With clouds, and shadows of the 
 
 clouds. 
 And mists the hillsides ranging. 
 Where morning's gold, and noon's 
 
 hot sim, 
 Their changing glories render; 
 Pour round the shores a varying 
 
 light. 
 Now glowing and now tender. 
 
 But purer than the shifting gleams 
 
 By liberal sunshine given, 
 
 Is the deep spirit of that hour, — 
 
 An efHuence breathed from heaven; 
 
 When the unclouded, yellow moon 
 
 Hangs o'er the eastern ridges. 
 
 And the long shaft of trembling 
 
 gold. 
 The trembling crystal bridges. 
 
 Farewell, sweet lake! brief were the 
 
 hours 
 Along thy banks for straying; 
 But not farewell what memory 
 
 takes, — 
 An image undecaying. 
 I hold secure beyond all change 
 One lovely recollection, 
 To cheer the hours of lonely toil. 
 And chase away dejection. 
 
 Charles Fenno Hoffman. 
 
 MONTE RE Y. 
 
 We were not many, — we who stood 
 
 Before the iron sleet that day; 
 Yet many a gallant spirit would 
 Give half his years if but he could 
 Have been with vis at Monterey. 
 
 Now here, now there, the shot it 
 hailed 
 In deadly drifts of fiery spray. 
 Yet not a single soldier quailed 
 When wounded comrades round them 
 wailed 
 Their dying shouts at Monterey. 
 
 And on, still on our cohunn kept, 
 Through walls of fianie, its wither- 
 ing way; 
 Where fell the dead, the living 
 
 stept, 
 Still charging on the guns which 
 swept 
 The slippery streets of Monterey. 
 
 The foe himself recoiled aghast. 
 When, striking whei'e he strongest 
 
 lay, 
 
 We swooped his flanking batteries 
 past, 
 
HOGG — HOLLAND. 
 
 271 
 
 And, braving full their murderous 
 blast. 
 Stormed home the towers of Mon- 
 terey. 
 
 Our banners on those turrets wave, 
 
 And there our evening bugles play ; 
 Where orange boughs above their 
 grave 
 
 Keep green the memorj' of the bravt; 
 Who fouglit and fell at Monterey. 
 
 We are not many, — we who pressed 
 
 Beside the brave who fell that 
 
 day: 
 
 But who of us has not confessed 
 
 He'd rather share their warrior rest 
 
 Than not have been at Monterey ? 
 
 James Hogg. 
 
 THE SKYLARK. 
 
 Bird of the wilderness 
 Blithesome and cumberless. 
 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland 
 and lea ! 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 
 Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 Wild is thy lay and loud. 
 Far in the downy cloud, 
 
 Love gives itenergy,love gave it birth, 
 Where, on thy dewy wing, 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on 
 earth. 
 
 O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
 O'er moor and mountain green, 
 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the 
 day. 
 Over the cloudlet dim. 
 Over the rainbow's rim, 
 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! 
 Then, when the gloaming comes. 
 Low in the lieather blooms. 
 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of 
 love be ! 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place — 
 
 Oh, to abide in the desert with tlioe I 
 
 JosiAH Gilbert Holland. 
 
 [From Bitter-Sweef.] 
 
 A SONG OF DOUBT. 
 
 The day is quenched, and the sun is 
 fled; 
 God has forgotten the world ! 
 The moon is gone, and the stars are 
 dead ; 
 God has forgotten the world ! 
 
 Evil has won In the horrid feud 
 Of ages with The Throne ; 
 
 Evil stands on the neck of Good, 
 And rules the world alone. 
 
 There is no good ; there is no God ; 
 
 And Faith is a heartless cheat 
 Who bares the backfor the Devil's rod. 
 
 And scatters thorns for the feet. 
 
 What are prayers in the lips of death. 
 
 Filling and chilling with hail ? 
 What are prayers but wasted breatli 
 
 Beaten back by the gale '? 
 
 [fled; 
 The day is quenched, and the sun is 
 
 God iias forgotten the world ! 
 The moon is gone, and the stars are 
 dead; 
 
 God has forgotten the world ! 
 
272 
 
 HOLLAND. 
 
 [From Bitter- Sweet.] 
 A SONG OF FAFFH. 
 
 Day will return with a freslier boon; 
 
 God will reiueniber the world ! 
 Night will come with a newer moon ; 
 
 God will remember the world ! 
 
 Evil is only the slave of Good; 
 
 Sorrow the servant of Joy ; 
 And the soul is mad that refuses food 
 
 Of the meanest in God's employ. 
 
 The fountain of joy is fed by tears, 
 And love is lit by the breath of 
 sighs ; 
 The deepest griefs and the wildest 
 fears 
 Have holiest ministries. 
 
 Strong grows the oak in the sweeping 
 storm ; 
 Safely the flower sleeps under the 
 snow ; 
 And the farmer's hearth is never 
 warm 
 Till the cold wind starts to blow. 
 
 Day will return with a fresher boon; 
 
 (iod will remember the world ! 
 Night will come with a newer moon; 
 
 God will remember the world ! 
 
 [From Bitter-Stveet.] 
 
 WHAT IS THE LITTLE OXE 
 THINKING ABOUT? 
 
 What is the little one thinking 
 
 about ? 
 Very wonderful things, no doubt. 
 Unwritten history ! 
 Unfathomed mystery ! 
 Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and 
 
 drinks, 
 And chuckles and crows, and nods 
 
 and winks. 
 As if his head were as full of kinks 
 And curious riddles as any sphinx! 
 
 Waqied by colic, and wet by tears. 
 Punctured by pins, and tortured by 
 
 fears, 
 Our little nephew will lose two years; 
 
 And he'll never know 
 Where the summers go; — 
 He need not laugh, for he'll (in 1 it so! 
 
 Who can tell what a baby thinks ? 
 Who can follow the gossamer links 
 
 I>y which the manikin feels his way 
 Out from the shore of the great un- 
 known. 
 Blind, and wailing, and all alone. 
 
 Into the light of day "? — 
 Out from the shore of the unknown 
 
 sea, 
 Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
 Of the unknown sea that reels and 
 
 rolls. 
 Specked with the barks of little 
 
 souls, — 
 Barks that were launched on the 
 
 other side, 
 And slipped from heaven on an ebb- 
 ing tide ! 
 What does he think of his mother's 
 eyes ? 
 What does he think of his moth- 
 er's hair? 
 What of the cradle-roof that flies 
 Forward and backward through 
 
 the air? 
 What does he think of his moth- 
 er's breast, — 
 Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 
 Seeking it ever with fresh delight, — 
 Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 
 What does he think when lier quick 
 
 embrace 
 Presses his hand and buries his face 
 Deep where the heart-throbs sink 
 
 and swell 
 With a tenderness she can never tell. 
 Though she mui-mur the words 
 Of all the birds, — 
 Words she has learned to murmur 
 well ? 
 Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! 
 I can see the shadow creep 
 Over his eyes in soft eclipse. 
 Over his brow, and over his lips, 
 Out to his little finger-tips; 
 Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
 Down he goes ! Down he goes ! 
 See! He is hushed in sweet re- 
 pose! 
 
\_From Bitter-iiireef.] 
 
 STRENGTH THROUGH RESISTED 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 God loves not sin, nor I; but in the 
 
 throng 
 Of evils that assail us, there are none 
 That yield their strength to Virtue's 
 
 struggling arm 
 With sucli munificent reward of 
 
 power 
 As great temptations. We may win 
 
 by toil 
 Endurance ; saintly fortitude by pain ; 
 By sickness, patience ; faith and trust 
 
 by fear; 
 But the great stimulus that spurs to 
 
 life, 
 And crowds to generous development 
 Each chastened power and iiassion of 
 
 the soul, 
 Is the temptation of the soul to sin, 
 Kesisted, and reconquered, evermore. 
 
 [From Bitter-Sweet.] 
 THE PRESS OF SORROW. 
 
 Heauts, like apples, are hard and 
 
 sour. 
 Till crushed by Pain's resistless 
 
 power ; 
 And yield their juices rich and bland 
 To none but .Sorrow's heavy hand. 
 The purest streams of human love 
 
 Flow naturally never. 
 But gush by pressure from above. 
 
 With God's hand on the lever. 
 The first are turbidest and meanest ; 
 The last are sweetest and serenest. 
 
 [From Bitter-Sweet.] 
 LIFE FROM DEATH. 
 
 Life evermore is fed by death, 
 
 In earth and sea and sky ; 
 And, that a rose may breathe its 
 breath. 
 
 Something must die. 
 
 Earth is a sepulchre of flowers, 
 
 AVhose vitalizing mould 
 Through boundless transmutation 
 towers. 
 
 In green and gold. 
 
 The oak-tree, struggling with the 
 blast. 
 Devours its father-tree. 
 And sheds its leaves and drops its 
 mast, 
 
 That more may be. 
 
 The falcon preys upon the finch, 
 
 The finch upon the fly, 
 And nought will loose the hunger- 
 pinch 
 
 But death's wild cry. 
 
 The milk-haired heifer's life must 
 pass 
 That it may fill your own. 
 As passed the sweet life of the 
 grass 
 
 She fed upon. 
 
 The power enslaved by yonder cask 
 
 Shall many burdens bear; 
 Shall nerve the toiler at his task. 
 The soul at prayer. 
 
 From lowly woe springs lordly joy; 
 
 From humbler good diviner; 
 The greater life must aye destroy 
 And drink the minor. 
 
 From hand to hand life's cup is 
 passed 
 Up Being's piled gradation, 
 Till men to angels yield at last 
 The rich collation. 
 
 [From liitter-Siceef.] 
 WORTH AND COST. 
 
 Thus is it over all the earth ! 
 
 That which we call the fairest. 
 And i^rize for its siu'passing worth. 
 Is always rarest. 
 
Iron is heaped in mountain piles. 
 
 And gluts the laggard forges: 
 But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles 
 And lonely gorges. 
 
 The snowy marble flecks the land 
 
 With heaped and rounded ledges, 
 But diamonds hide within the sand 
 Their starry edges. 
 
 The finny armies clog the twine 
 
 That sweeps the lazy river. 
 But pearls come singly from the brine, 
 With the pale diver. 
 
 God gives no value unto men 
 
 Unmatched by meed of labor; 
 And Cost, of Worth, has ever been 
 The closest neighbor. 
 
 Wide is the gate and broad the way 
 
 That opens to perdition. 
 And countless multitudes are they 
 AVho seek admission. 
 
 But strait the gate, the path unkind. 
 
 That leads to life immortal. 
 And few the careful feet that find, 
 The hidden portal. 
 
 All common good has common price ; 
 
 Exceeding good, exceeding; 
 Christ bought the keys of Paradise 
 By cruel bleeding ; 
 
 And every soul that wins a place 
 
 Upon its hills of pleasure, 
 Must give its all, and beg for grace 
 To fill the measure. 
 
 [From Bitter-Sweet.] 
 CUADLE SOJSFG. 
 
 Hither, Sleep ! a mother wants thee ! 
 
 Come with velvet arms! 
 Fold the baby that she grants thee 
 
 To thy own soft charms ! 
 
 Bear him into Dreamland lightly! 
 
 Give liim sight of flowers ! 
 Do not bring him back till brightly 
 
 Break the morning hours ! 
 
 Close his eyes with gentle fingers ! 
 
 Cross his hands of snow ! 
 Tell the angels wliere he lingers 
 
 They must whisper low ! 
 
 1 will guard thy si)oll unbroken 
 
 If thou hear my call ; 
 Come, then. Sleep! I wait the token 
 
 Of thy downy thrall. 
 
 Now I see his sweet lips moving; 
 
 He is in thy keep; 
 Other milk the babe is proving 
 
 At the breast of Sleep ! 
 
 [From Ditter-Siceet.'] 
 TO AN INFANT SLEEPING. 
 
 Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of 
 
 innocence! 
 Sleep like a bud ; for soon the sun of 
 
 life 
 With ardors quick and passionate 
 
 shall rise. 
 And with hot kisses, part the fra- 
 grant lips — 
 The folded petals of thy soul! Alas! 
 What feverish winds shall tease and 
 
 toss thee, then ! 
 Wliat pride and pain, ambition and 
 
 despair. 
 Desire, satiety, and all that fill 
 With misery, life's fretful enterprise, 
 Shall wrench and blanch thee, till 
 
 thou fall at last, 
 Joy after joy down-fluttering to the 
 
 earth. 
 To be apportioned to the elements ! 
 I marvel, baby, whether it were ill 
 That he who planted thee should 
 
 pluck thee now. 
 And save thee from the blight that 
 
 comes on all. 
 I marvel whether it would not be well 
 That the frail bud should burst in 
 
 Paradise, 
 On the full throbbing of an angel's 
 
 heart ! 
 
THE TYPE OF STRUGGLING 
 HUMANITY. 
 
 IjAocoox! thou great embodiment 
 Of human life and human history ! 
 Thou record of the past, thou proph- 
 ecy 
 Of the sad future, thou majestic voice, 
 PeaUng along tlie ages from old time I 
 Thou wail of agonized humanity ! 
 There lives no thought in marble like 
 
 to thee ! 
 Thou hast no kindred in the Vatican, 
 But standest separate among the 
 
 dreams 
 Of old mythologies — alone — alone ! 
 The beautiful Apollo at thy side 
 Is but a marble dream, and dreams 
 
 are all 
 The gods and goddesses and fauns 
 
 and fates 
 That populate these wondrous halls ; 
 
 but thou, 
 Standing among them, liftest up thy- 
 self 
 In majesty of meaning, till they sink 
 Far from the sight, no more signifi- 
 cant 
 Than the poor toys of children. For 
 
 thou art 
 A voice from out the world's experi- 
 ence, 
 Speaking of all the generations past 
 To all the generations yet to come 
 Of the long struggle, the sublime de- 
 spair. 
 The wild and weaiy agony of man ! 
 
 ON THE RIGHI. 
 
 On the Righi Kulm we stood, 
 
 Lovely Floribel and I, 
 While tiie morning's crimson flood 
 
 Streamed along the eastern sky. 
 Reddened every mountain-peak 
 
 Into rose from twilight dun ; 
 
 But the blush upon her cheek 
 Was not lighted by the sun ! 
 
 On the Righi Kulm we sat. 
 
 Lovely Floribel and I, 
 Plucking bluebells for her hat 
 
 From a mound that blossomed 
 nigh. 
 " We are near to heaven," she sighed, 
 
 While her I'aven lashes fell. 
 " Nearer," softly I replied, 
 
 " Than the mountain's height may 
 tell." 
 
 Down the Righi' s side we sped. 
 
 Lovely Floribel and I, 
 But her morning blush had fled 
 
 And the bluebells all were dry. 
 Of the height the dream was born; 
 
 Of the lower air it died ; 
 And the passion of the morn 
 
 Flagged and fell at eventide. 
 
 From the breast of blue Lucerne, 
 
 Lovely Floribel and I 
 Saw the brand of sunset burn 
 
 On the Righi Kulm, and die. 
 And we wondered, gazing thus. 
 
 If our dream would still remain 
 On the height, and wait for us 
 
 Till we climb to heaven again ! 
 
 WHAT WILL IT MATTER? 
 
 If life awake and will never cease 
 On the future's distant shore. 
 
 And the rose of love and the lily of 
 peace 
 Shall bloom there forevermore, — 
 
 Let the world go round and round. 
 And the sim sink into the sea; 
 
 For whether I'm on or inider the 
 ground. 
 Oh, what will it matter to me ? 
 
276 
 
 HOLME — HOLMES. 
 
 Saxe Holme. 
 
 THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL. 
 
 Three, only three, my darling, 
 
 Separate, solemn, slow; 
 Not like the swift and joyous ones, 
 
 We used to know 
 When we kissed because we loved 
 each other 
 
 Simply to taste love's sweet, 
 And lavished our kisses as the sum- 
 mer 
 
 Lavishes heat ; — 
 But as they kiss whose hearts are 
 wrung. 
 
 When hope and fear are spent, 
 And nothing is left to give except 
 
 A sacrament ! 
 
 First of the three, my darling, 
 
 Is sacred unto pain ; 
 We have hurt each other often : 
 
 We shall again, 
 When we pine because we miss each 
 other. 
 
 And do not miderstand. 
 How the written words are so much 
 colder 
 
 Than eye and hand. 
 I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain 
 
 Which we may give or take ; 
 
 Buried, forgiven, before it comes. 
 For our love's sake! 
 
 The second kiss, my darling. 
 
 Is full of joy's sweet thrill; 
 We have blessed each other always ; 
 
 We always will. 
 We shall reach till we feel each other. 
 
 Past all of time and space ; 
 We shall listen till we hear each 
 other 
 
 In every place; 
 The earth is full of messengers 
 
 Which love sends to and fro ; 
 I kiss thee, darling, for all joy 
 
 Which we shall know ! 
 
 The last kiss, oh, my darling, 
 
 My love — I cannot see 
 Through my tears, as I remember 
 
 What It may be. 
 We may die and never see each other. 
 
 Die with no time to give 
 Any sign that our hearts are faithful 
 
 To die, as live. 
 Token of what they will not see 
 
 Who see our parting breath, 
 This one last kiss, my darling, seals 
 
 The seal of death ! 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 THE VOICELESS. 
 
 We count the broken lyi-es that rest 
 Where the sweet wailing singers 
 slumber. 
 But o'er their silent sister's breast 
 The wild-flowers who will stoop to 
 number '> 
 A few can touch the magic string. 
 And noisy fame is proud to win 
 them : — 
 Alas for those that never sing, 
 
 But die with all their music in 
 them ! 
 
 Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 
 Whose song has told their hearts' 
 sad story, — 
 Weep for the voiceless, who have 
 known 
 The cross without the crown of 
 glory ! 
 Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 
 O'er Sappho's memory-haiuited 
 billow. 
 But where the glistening night-dews 
 weep 
 On nameless Sorrow's churchyard 
 pillow. 
 
HOLMES. 
 
 211 
 
 O hearts that break and give no sign 
 
 Save whitening lip and fading 
 tresses, 
 Till Death pours out his cordial wine 
 
 Slow-dropped from Misery's crush- 
 ing presses, — 
 If singing breath or echoing chord 
 
 To every hidden pang were given, 
 What endless melodies were poured, 
 
 As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 
 
 up- 
 
 DOEOTHY Q. 
 A FAMILY PORTRAIT. 
 
 Grandmother's mother: her age I 
 
 guess, 
 Thirteen summers, or something less ; 
 Girlish bust, but womanly air: 
 Smooth, square forehead ^\ith 
 
 rolled hair. 
 Lips that lover has never kissed ; 
 Taper fingers and slender wrist; 
 Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade ; 
 So they painted the little maid. 
 
 On her hand a parrot green 
 Sits unmoving and broods serene. 
 Hold up the canvas full in view, — 
 Look! there's a rent the light shines 
 
 through. 
 Dark with' a century's fringe of 
 
 dust, — 
 That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust! 
 Such is the tale the lady old, 
 Dorothy's daughter's daughter told. 
 
 Who the painter was none may tell,— 
 One whose best was not over well ; 
 Hard and dry, it must be confessed, 
 Flat as a rose that has long been 
 
 pressed : 
 Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
 Dainty colors of red and white, 
 And in her slender shape are seen 
 Hint and promise of stately mien. 
 
 Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
 
 Dorothy Q. was a lady l)orn ! 
 
 Ay! since the galloping N'ormans 
 
 came, 
 England's annals have known her 
 
 name : 
 
 And still to the three-hilled rebel 
 
 town 
 Dear is that ancient name's renown, 
 For many a civic wreath they won. 
 The youthful sire and the gray-haired 
 
 son. 
 
 O Damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
 Strange is the gift that I owe to you; 
 Such a gift as never a king 
 Save to daughter or son might 
 
 bring. 
 All my tenure of heart and hand, 
 All my title to house and land ; 
 Mother and sister and child and wife 
 And joy and sorrow and death and 
 
 life! 
 
 ^Vliat if a hundred years ago 
 
 Those close-shut lips had answered 
 
 No. 
 When forth the tremulous question 
 
 came 
 That cost the maiden her Norman 
 
 name. 
 And mider the folds that look so still 
 The bodice swelled with the bosom's 
 
 thrill ? 
 Should I be I, or would it be 
 One tenth another to nine-tenths me? 
 
 Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes: 
 Not the light gossamer stirs with less; 
 But never a cable that holds so fast 
 Through all the battles of wa^'e and 
 
 blast, 
 And never an echo of speech or song 
 That lives in the babbling air so long! 
 There were tones in the voice that 
 
 whispered then 
 You may hear to-day in a hundred 
 
 men. 
 
 O lady and lover, how faint and far 
 Your images hover, — and here we 
 
 are. 
 Solid and stirring in flesh and bone, — 
 Edward's and Dorothy's — all their 
 
 own, — 
 A goodly record for time to show 
 Of a syllable spoken so long ago : — 
 Shall 1 bless you, Dorothy, or forgive 
 For the tender whisper that bade" me 
 
 live ? 
 
278 
 
 HOLMES. 
 
 It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 
 
 I will heal the stab of the Red-Coat's 
 blade, 
 
 And freshen the gold of the tarnished 
 frame, 
 
 And gild with a rhyme your house- 
 hold name: 
 
 So you shall smile on us brave and 
 bright 
 
 As first you greeted the morning's 
 light, 
 
 And live untroubled by woes and 
 fears 
 
 Through a second youth of a hun- 
 dred years. 
 
 UNDER THE VIOLETS. 
 
 Hek hands are cold; her face is 
 white ; 
 No more her pulses come and go ; 
 Her eyes are shut to life and light; — 
 Fold the white vesture, snow on 
 
 snow. 
 And lay her where the violets blow. 
 
 But not beneath a graven stone, 
 To plead for tears with alien eyes; 
 
 A slender cross of wood alone 
 Shall say, that here a maiden lies. 
 In peace beneath the peaceful 
 skies. 
 
 And gray old trees of hugest limb 
 Shall wheel their circling shadows 
 round 
 To make the scorching sunlight dim 
 That drinks the greenness from the 
 
 ground, 
 And drop their dead leaves on her 
 mound. 
 
 When o'er their boughs the squirrels 
 ran. 
 And through their leaves the robins 
 call, 
 And ripening in the autumn sun. 
 The acorns and the chestnuts fall, 
 Doubt not that she will heed them 
 all. 
 
 For her the morning choir shall sing 
 Its matins from the branches high, 
 
 And every minstrel-voice of Spring, 
 That trills beneath the April sky, 
 Shall greet her with its earliest 
 cry. ■ 
 
 ^Vhen turning round their dial track, 
 Eastward the lengthening shadows 
 pass. 
 Her little mourners, clad in black, 
 The crickets, sliding through the 
 
 grass. 
 Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 
 
 At last the rootlets of the trees 
 Shall find the prison where she lies, 
 
 And bear the bviried dust they seize . 
 In leaves and blossoms to the skies 
 So may the soul that warmed it 
 rise! 
 
 If any, born of kindlier blood. 
 Should ask, What maiden lies be- 
 low ? 
 Say only this: A tender bud. 
 
 That tried to blossom in the snow, 
 Lies withered where the violets 
 blo\v. 
 
 NEARING THE SXOW-LIXE. 
 
 Slow toiling upward from the misty 
 vale, 
 I leave the bright enamelled zones 
 
 beloAv ; 
 No more for me their beauteous 
 bloom shall glow. 
 Their lingering sweetness load the 
 
 morning gale; 
 Few are the slender flowerets, scent- 
 less, pale. 
 That on their ice-clad stems, all 
 
 trembling blow 
 Along the margin of unmelting 
 snow ; 
 Yet with imsaddt ned voice thy verge 
 I hail. 
 
 mv's 
 
m^ 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 279 
 
 White realm of peace above the 
 flowering hne, 
 Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky 
 spires ! 
 O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt 
 planets shine, 
 On thy majestic altars fade the fires 
 That tilled the air with smoke of vain 
 desires. 
 And all the unclouded blue of 
 heaven is thine ! 
 
 THE TWO STIiEAMS. 
 
 Behold the rocky wall 
 That down its sloping sides 
 Pours the swift rain-drops, blending 
 as they fall, 
 In rushing river-tides ! 
 
 Yon stream, whose sources run 
 Turned by a pebble's edge. 
 Is Athabasca, rolling towards the sun 
 Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 
 
 The slender rill had strayed. 
 But for the slanting stone. 
 To evening's ocean, with the tangled 
 braid 
 Of foam-flecked Oregon. 
 
 So from the heights of Will 
 Life's parting stream descends, 
 And, as a moment turns its slender 
 rill. 
 Each widening torrent bends, — 
 
 From the same cradle's side. 
 From the same mother's knee, — 
 One to long darkness and the frozen 
 tide, 
 One to the Peaceful Sea ! 
 
 HYMX OF TRUST. 
 
 O Love Divine, that stoopedst to 
 share 
 Our sharpest pang, our bitterest 
 tear. 
 On Thee we cast each earth-born care, 
 We smile at pain while Thou art 
 near ! 
 
 Though long the weary way we tread, 
 
 And sorrow crown each lingering 
 
 year, 
 
 No path we shun, no darkness dread, 
 
 Our hearts still whispering, Thou 
 
 art near! 
 
 When drooping pleasure turns to 
 grief, 
 And trembling faith is changed to 
 fear. 
 The murmuring wind, the quivering 
 leaf. 
 Shall softly tell us. Thou art near ! 
 
 On Thee we fling our^iurdening woe, 
 O Love Divine, forever dear. 
 
 Content to suffer while we know. 
 Living and dying. Thou art near ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 MELA^CHOL Y. 
 
 [From the Ode thereon.] 
 
 Lo! here the best, the worst, the 
 
 world 
 Doth now remember or forget 
 Are in one common ruin hurled ; 
 And love and hate are calmly met — 
 The loveliest eyes that ever shone. 
 The fairest hands, and locks of jet. 
 
 Is 't not enough to vex our souls 
 
 And fill our eyes, that we liave set 
 
 Our love upon a rose's leaf. 
 
 Our hearts upon a violet ? 
 
 Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; 
 
 And, sometimes, at their swift decay 
 
 Beforehand we must fret. 
 
 The roses bud and bloom again ; 
 
 But love may haunt the grave of love, 
 
 And watch the mould in vain. 
 
280 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art 
 
 mine. 
 And do not take my tears amiss; 
 For tears luiist flow to wash away 
 A thought that shows so stern as 
 
 this. 
 Forgive, if somewhile I forget. 
 In woe to come, the present bliss, 
 As frighted Proserpine let fall 
 Her flowers at the sight of Dis. 
 E'en so the dark and bright will 
 
 kiss; 
 The sunniest things throw sternest 
 
 shade; 
 And there is even a happiness 
 Tliat makes the heart afraid! 
 Now let us witli a spell invoke 
 The full-orbed moon to grieve our 
 
 eyes; 
 Not bright, not bright — but with a 
 
 eloud 
 Lapped all about her, let her rise 
 All pale and dim, as if from rest. 
 The ghost of the late buried sun 
 Had crept into tlie skies. 
 The moon! she is the source of 
 
 sighs. 
 The very face to make us sad, 
 If but to think in other times 
 The same calm, quiet look she had, 
 As if the world held nothing liase, 
 Or vile and mean, or herce and 
 
 bad — 
 The same faij light that shone in 
 
 streams. 
 The fairy lamp that charmed the 
 
 lad; 
 For so it is, with spent delights 
 She taunts men's brains, and makes 
 
 them mad. 
 
 All things are touched with melan- 
 choly, 
 Born of the secret soul's mistrust 
 To feel her fair ethereal wings 
 Weighed down with vile, degraded 
 
 dust. 
 Even the bright extremes of joy 
 Bring on conclusions of disgust — 
 Like the sweet blossoms of the 
 
 May, 
 Whose fragrance ends in must. 
 Oh, give her then her tribute just, 
 
 Her sighs and tears, and musings 
 
 holy! 
 There is no music in the life 
 That sounds with idiot laughter 
 
 solely; 
 There "s not a string attimed to mirth, 
 But has its chord in melancholy. 
 
 rO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS 
 MOTHER. 
 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
 Hereafter she may have a son 
 Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 
 Gaze upon her living eyes. 
 And mirror back her lov(> for thee, — 
 Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
 To meet tliem when they cannot see. 
 Gaze upon her living eyes I 
 
 Press her lips the while they glow 
 With love that they have often told. 
 Hereafter thoti mayest press in woe, 
 And kiss them till thine old are cold, 
 Press her lips the while they glow! 
 
 Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
 Althotigh it be not silver-gray — 
 Too early Death, led on by fare. 
 May snatch save one dear lock away. 
 Oh! revere her raven hair! 
 
 Pray for her at eve and morn. 
 That Heaven may long the stroke 
 
 defer, — 
 For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
 When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
 Pray for her at eve and morn ! 
 
 / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I REMEMBEK, I remember 
 The house where I was born. 
 The little window where the stin 
 Came peeping in at morn ; 
 He never came a wink too soon; 
 
HOOD. 
 
 281 
 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white. 
 
 The violets, and the lily-cups — 
 
 Those flowers made of light! 
 
 The lilacs where the robin built 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
 The laburnum on his birthday, — 
 
 The tree is living yet! 
 
 I remember. I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 
 And thought the air must rush as 
 
 fresii 
 To swallows on the wing; 
 ]My spirit flew in feathers then. 
 That is so heavy now, 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky. 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 We watched her breathing through 
 the night 
 
 Her breathing soft and low. 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak, 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 Our fears our hopes belied — 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept. 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came, dim and 
 sad. 
 
 And chill with early showers. 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 With fingers weaiy and worn, 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous 
 pitch 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt! " 
 
 ■ ' Woi'k ! work ! work ! 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof I 
 And \\ork — work — work. 
 
 Till the stars shine through the 
 roof ! 
 It's oh! to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to 
 save. 
 
 If this is Christian work! 
 
 ' ' Work — work — work 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
 Seam, and gusset, and band, 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam — 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 
 
 And sew them on in a dream I 
 
 •' O men, with sisters dear! 
 
 O men, with mothers and wives! 
 It is not linen you 're wearing out! 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch. 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt — 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A shroud as well as a shirt ! 
 
 " But why do I talk of Death — 
 That phantom of grisly bone ? 
 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape. 
 It seems so like ray omu — 
 
282 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 It seems so like my own 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep ; 
 O God ! that bread should be so dear, 
 And flesh and blood so cheap ! 
 
 ' ' Work — work — work ! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 And what are its wages ? A bed of 
 straw, 
 A crust of bread, and rags. 
 That shattered roof, and this naked 
 floor; 
 A table, a broken chair; 
 And a wall so blank my shadow I 
 thank 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 From weary chime to chime ! 
 Work — work — work — 
 
 As prisoners Mork for crime ! 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band — 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain 
 benumbed, 
 
 As well as the weary hand. 
 
 " Work — work — Avork 
 
 In the dull December light ! 
 And work — work — work. 
 
 When the weather is warm and 
 bright ! — 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling. 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit me with the spring. 
 
 " O ! but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 
 With the sky above my head. 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet ! 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel. 
 Before I knew the woes of want 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 "O! but for one short hour — 
 
 A respite however brief! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope, 
 
 But only time for grief ! 
 A little weeping would ease my heart ; 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread! " 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 And still, with a voice of dolorous 
 
 pitch — 
 AVould that its tone could reach the 
 rich ! — 
 She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 Onk more unfortmiate, 
 Weary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate. 
 Gone to her death ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care ! 
 Fashioned so slenderly — 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements. 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing; 
 Take her up instantly, 
 Loving, not loathing! 
 
 Touch her not scornfully ! 
 Think of her moiu'nfully, 
 Gently and humanly — 
 Not of the stains of her; 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny. 
 Rash and undutif ul ; 
 Past all dishonor, 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautifid. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, 
 One of Eve's family — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers> 
 Oozing so clannnily. 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb — 
 
dw 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 283 
 
 Her fair auburn tresses — 
 
 Take her up tenderly — 
 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 
 Lift her with care ! 
 
 Where was lier home "? 
 
 Fashioned so slenderly — 
 
 
 Young and so fair ! 
 
 Who was her fatlier ? 
 
 
 Who was her motlier ? 
 
 Ere her limbs frigidly, 
 
 Had slie a sister ? 
 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 
 Had she a brotlier ? 
 
 Decently, kindly. 
 
 Or was tliere a dearer one 
 
 Smooth and compose them; 
 
 8till, and a nearer one 
 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 
 Yet, tlian all other ? 
 
 Staring so blindly ! 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 
 Dreadfully staring 
 
 Of Christian charity 
 
 Through muddy hnpurity, 
 
 Under the sun ! 
 
 As when with the daring 
 
 Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
 
 Last look of despairing 
 
 Near a whole city full, 
 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Home she had none. 
 
 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly. 
 
 Spurred by contumely, 
 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 
 Cold inhumanity 
 
 Feelings had changed — 
 
 Burning insanity 
 
 Love, by harsh evidence, 
 
 Into her rest ! 
 
 Thrown from its eminence ; 
 
 Cross her hands humbly, 
 
 Even God's providence 
 
 As if praying dumbly, 
 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Over her breast ! 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 So far in the river, 
 
 W'ith many a light 
 
 From window and casement, 
 
 Owning her weakness. 
 Her evil behavior, 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 Her sins to'her Saviour! 
 
 From garret to basement, 
 
 
 She stood with amazement. 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 
 
 
 FAREWELL, LIFE.' 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 
 
 Made her tremble and shiver: 
 
 Faeewei.l, Life ! my senses swim, 
 
 But not the dark arch, 
 
 And the world is growing dim : 
 
 Or the black flowing river; 
 
 Thronging shadows cloud the light, 
 
 Mad from life's history. 
 
 Like the advent of the niglit — 
 
 Glad to death's mystery. 
 
 Colder, colder, colder stilt, 
 
 Swift to be hurled — 
 
 Upwards steals a vapor chill ; 
 
 Any where, any where 
 
 Strong the earthy odor grows — 
 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 I smell the mould above the rose ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly — 
 
 AVelcome, Life! the spirit strives: 
 
 No matter how coldly 
 
 Strength returns, and hope revives; 
 
 The rough river ran — 
 
 Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn 
 
 Over the brink of it ! 
 
 Fly like shadows at the morn — 
 
 Picture it — think of it ! 
 
 O'er the earth there comes a bloom; 
 
 Dissolute man! 
 
 Sunny light for sidlen gloom. 
 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 
 Warm perfume for vapor cold — 
 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 I smell the rose above the mould ! 
 
284 
 
 HOUGHTON. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 It was not in the winter 
 
 Our loving lot was cast; 
 It was the time of roses — 
 
 We plucked them as we passed ! 
 
 That churlish season never frowned 
 
 On early lovers yet ! 
 O, no — the Avorld was newly crowned 
 
 With flowers when first we met. 
 
 'T was twilight, and I bade you go — 
 But still you held me fast ; 
 
 It was the time of roses, — 
 
 We plucked them as we passed ! 
 
 TRUE DEATH. 
 
 It is not death, that some time in a 
 
 sigh 
 This eloquent breath shall take its 
 
 speechless flight; 
 That some time these bright stars, 
 
 that now reply 
 In sunlight to the sun, shall set in 
 
 night; 
 That this warm conscious flesli shall 
 
 perish quite, 
 And all life's ruddy springs forget to 
 
 flow; 
 That thought shall cease, and the 
 
 immortal sprite 
 Be lapped in alien clay and laid be- 
 low; 
 It is not death to know this — but to 
 
 know 
 
 That pious thoughts, whicli visit at 
 
 new graves 
 In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go 
 So duly and so oft, — and when grass 
 
 waves 
 Over the i)ast-away, there may be 
 
 then 
 No resurrection in the minds of men. 
 
 LOVE BETTERED BY TIME. 
 
 Love, dearest lady, such as I would 
 
 speak. 
 Lives not within the humor of the 
 
 eye; 
 Not being but an outward phantasy 
 That skims the surface of a tinted 
 
 cheek, — 
 Else it Mould wane with beauty, and 
 
 grow weak. 
 As if the rose made sinnmer — and 
 
 so lie 
 Amongst the perishable things that 
 
 die. 
 Unlike the love which I would give 
 
 and seek ; 
 Whose health is of no hue — to feel 
 
 decay 
 With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy 
 
 prime. 
 Love is its own great loveliness al- 
 
 way. 
 And takes new beauties from the 
 
 touch of time ; 
 Its bough owns no December and no 
 
 May, 
 But bears its blossoms into Avinter's 
 
 clime. 
 
 George Houghton. 
 
 [From Tlic Legend of St. Olafs Kirk.'] 
 
 VALROlia WATCHING AXEVS DEPARTURE. 
 
 At kirk knelt Valborg, the cold altar-stone 
 Reeling beneath her. Filled with choking grief 
 She could not say good-bye, but by a page 
 Her rosary sent him ; and when he had climbed 
 His horse, and on the far-off bridge she heard 
 
HOUGHTON. 
 
 285 
 
 The dull tramp of his troopers, up she fared 
 
 By stair and ladder to old Steindor's post, — 
 
 Foi' he was mute, and could not nettle her 
 
 With words' cheap guise of sympathy. There perched 
 
 Beside him up among the dusty bells. 
 
 She pushed her face between the nuillions, looked 
 
 Across the world of snow, lighted like day 
 
 By moon and moor-ild ; saw with misty eyes 
 
 A gleam of steel, an eagle's feather tall; 
 
 And through the clear air watched it, tossing, pass 
 
 Across the sea-line ; saw the ship lift sail 
 
 And blow to southward, catching light and shade 
 
 As 'mong the sheers and skerries it picked out 
 
 A crooked pathway; saw it round the ness. 
 
 And, catching one last flicker of the moon, 
 
 Fade into nothingness. With desolate steps 
 
 She left the bellman and crept down the stairs ; 
 
 Heard all the air re-echoing : ' ' He is gone ! " — 
 
 Felt a great sob behind her lips, and tears 
 
 Flooding the sluices of her eyes ; turned toward 
 
 The empty town, and for the first time saw 
 
 That Nidaros was small and irksome, felt 
 
 First time her tether galling, and, by heaven ! 
 
 Wished she'd been born a man-child, free to fare 
 
 Unhindered through the world's wide pastures, free 
 
 To stand this horn- with Axel as his squire. 
 
 And with him brave the sea-breeze. Aimlessly 
 
 She sought the scattered gold-threads that had formed 
 
 Life's glowing texture: but how dull they seemed! 
 
 How bootless the long waste of lagging weeks, 
 
 With dull do-over of mean drudgeries. 
 
 And miserable cheer of pitying mouths 
 
 Whistling and whipping through small roimd of change 
 
 Their cowering pack of saw and circumstance! 
 
 How slow the crutches of the limping years ! 
 
 \_Slx Quatrains from Album-Leaves.'] 
 COURAGE. 
 
 Dakkness before, all joy behind ! 
 Yet keep thy courage, do not mind : 
 He soonest reads the lesson right 
 Who reads with back against the 
 lisht! 
 
 AMBiTioyr. 
 
 The palace with its splendid dome. 
 That nearest to the sky aspires. 
 
 Is first to challenge storms that roam 
 Above it, and call down their fires. 
 
 THIS XAME OF MIXE. 
 
 This name of mine the sim may steal 
 
 away, 
 Fierce fire consume it, moths eat 
 
 name and day ; 
 Or mildew's hand may smooch it with 
 
 decay. — 
 But not my love, for that shall live 
 
 alway. 
 
 REGRET. 
 
 I've regretted most sincerely, 
 I've repented deeply, long; 
 
 But to those I've loved most dearly, 
 I've oftenest done wrong. 
 
PURITY. 
 
 Let yoixr truth stand sure, 
 xViid the world is true ; 
 
 Let your heart keep pure — 
 And the world will, too. 
 
 He erred, no doul)t, perhaps he 
 sinned ; 
 Shall I then dare to cast a stone ? 
 Perhaps this blotch, on a garment 
 white. 
 Counts less than the dingy robes I 
 own. 
 
 {From Albiim-Lcares.] 
 DAISY. 
 
 I GAVE my little girl back to the 
 daisies, 
 From them it was that she took her 
 name ; 
 I gave my precious one back to the 
 daisies, 
 From where they caught their color 
 she came; 
 And now, when I look in the face of 
 a daisy. 
 My little girl's face I see, I see! 
 My tears, down dropping, with theirs 
 commingle. 
 And they give my precious one 
 back to me. 
 
 Lord Houghton (Richard Monckton Milnes). 
 
 SIXCE YES TERDA Y. 
 
 I'm not where I was yesterday. 
 Though my home be still the same, 
 For I have lost the veriest friend 
 Whomever a friend could name ; 
 I'm not where I was yesterday. 
 Though change there be little to see, 
 For a part of myself has lapsed away 
 From Time to Eternity. 
 
 I have lost a thought that many a 
 
 year 
 Was most familiar food 
 To my inmost mind, by night or day. 
 In merry or plaintive mood ; 
 I have lost a hope, that many a year 
 Looked far on a gk^aming way. 
 When the walls of Life were closing 
 
 round. 
 And the sky was sombre gray. 
 
 I thought, how should I see him first, 
 How should our hands first meet. 
 Within his room, — upon the stair,— 
 At the corner of the street ? 
 I thought, where should I hear him 
 first, 
 
 How catch his greeting tone, — 
 And thus I went up io his door, 
 And they told me he was gone ! 
 
 Oh ! what is Life but a sum of love, 
 And Death but to lose it all ? 
 Weeds be for those that are left be- 
 hind. 
 And not for those that fall ! 
 And now how mighty a sum of love 
 
 Is lost for ever to me 
 
 No, I'm not what I was yesterday. 
 Though change there be little to see. 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 Heart of the people! Working men! 
 Marrow and nerve of human powers; 
 Who on your stm-dy backs sustain 
 Through streaming time this world 
 
 of ours ; 
 Hold by that title, — whicli pro- 
 claims, 
 That ye are undismayed and strong, 
 Accomplishing whatever aims 
 May to the sons of earth belong. 
 
 
HOUGHTON. 
 
 287 
 
 And he who still and silent sits 
 In closed room or shady nook, 
 And seems to nurse his idle wits 
 AVith folded arms oroi^en book: — 
 To things now working in that mind, 
 Your children's children well may 
 
 owe 
 Blessings that hope has ne'er defined 
 Till from his busy thoughts they flow. 
 
 Thus all must work — with head or 
 
 hand, 
 For self or others, good or ill : 
 Life is ordained to bear, like land. 
 Some fruit, be fallow as it will ; 
 Evil has force itself to sow 
 Where we deny the healthy seed, — 
 And all our choice is this, — to grow 
 Pasture and grain or noisome weed. 
 
 Then in content possess your hearts, 
 Unenvious of each other's lot, — 
 For those which seem the easiest parts 
 Have travail which ye reckon not: 
 And lie is bravest, happiest, best. 
 Who. from the task within his span 
 Earns for himself his evening rest, 
 And an increase of good for man. 
 
 / WAKDEnED BY THE BROOK- 
 SIDE. 
 
 I WANDERED by the brook-side, 
 
 I wandered by the mill, — 
 
 I could not hear the brook flow, 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 There was no burr of grasshopper. 
 
 No chirp of any bird. " 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree, 
 
 I watched the long, long shade, 
 
 And as it grew still longer, 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 
 For I listened for a footfall, 
 
 I listened for a word, — 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not, — no, he came not, — 
 The night came on alone, — 
 The little stars sat one by one. 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 The evening air passed by my cheek, 
 The leaves above svere stirred ; 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing, 
 When something stood behind, 
 A hand was on my shoulder, 
 I knew its touch was kind: 
 It drew me nearer — nearer. 
 We did not speak one word ; 
 For the beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 THE WORTH OF HOURS. 
 
 Believe not that your inner eye 
 Can ever in just measure try 
 The worth of hours as they go by : 
 
 For every man's weak self, alas! 
 Makes him to see them, while they 
 
 pass. 
 As through a dim or tinted glass : 
 
 But if in earnest care you would 
 Mete out to each its part of good. 
 Trust rather to your after-mood. 
 
 Those surely are not fairly spent. 
 That leave your spirit bowed and 
 
 bent 
 In sad unrest and ill-content : 
 
 And more, — though free from seem- 
 ing harm. 
 You rest from toil of mind or arm, 
 Or slow retire from Pleasure's 
 charm, — 
 
 If then a painful sense comes on 
 Of something wholly lost and gone, 
 Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done, — 
 
 Of something from your being's 
 
 chain, 
 Broke otf, nor to be linked again 
 By all mere memory can retain. — 
 
HOUOHTON. 
 
 Upon yoiu' heart this truth may 
 
 rise, — 
 jSTotliing that altogether dies 
 Suffices man's just destinies: 
 
 So should we live, that every hour 
 May die as dies the natural flower, — 
 A self-reviving thing of power; 
 
 That every thought and every deed 
 May hold within itself the seed 
 Of future good and future need : 
 
 Esteeming sorrow, whose employ 
 Is to develop not destroy. 
 Far better than a barren joy. 
 
 FOREVER UNCONFESSED. 
 
 They seemed to those who saw them 
 
 meet 
 The worldly friends of every day, 
 Her smile was undisturbed and 
 
 sweet, 
 His coiu'tesy was free and gay. 
 
 But yet if one the other's name 
 In some unguarded moment heard. 
 The heart you thought so calm and 
 
 tame. 
 Would struggle like a captured bird : 
 
 And letters of mere formal phrase 
 Were blistered with repeated tears. — 
 And this was not the work of days. 
 But had gone on for years and 
 
 years 
 
 Alas, that Love was not too strong 
 For maiden shame and manly pride ! 
 Alas, that they delayed too long 
 The goal of mutual bliss beside. 
 
 Tet what no chance could then re- 
 veal. 
 And neither would be first to own, 
 Let fate and courage now conceal, 
 When truth could bring remorse 
 alone. 
 
 DIVORCED. 
 
 We that were friends, yet are not 
 now, 
 
 AYe that must daily meet 
 AVith ready words and courteous 
 bow. 
 
 Acquaintance of the street; 
 We must not scorn the holy past, 
 
 We nuist remember still 
 To honor feelings that outlast 
 
 The reason and the will. 
 
 I Height reprove tliy broken faith, 
 
 I might recall the time 
 When thou wert chartered mine till 
 death. 
 
 Through every fate and clime ; 
 When every letter was a vow, 
 
 And fancy was not free 
 To dream of ended love; and thou 
 
 Wouldst say the same of me. 
 
 No, no, 'tis not for us to trim 
 
 The balance of our wrongs. 
 Enough to leave remorse to him 
 
 To whom remorse belongs! 
 Let our dead friendshii) be to us 
 
 A desecrated name, 
 LTnutterable, mysterious, 
 
 A sorrow and a shame. 
 
 A sorrow that two souls Mhich 
 grew 
 Encased in mutual bliss. 
 Should wander, callous strangers, 
 through 
 So cold a woi'ld as this ! 
 A shame that we, whose hearts had 
 earned 
 For life an early heaven. 
 Should be like angels self-returned 
 To Death, when once forgiven! 
 
 Let us remain as living signs. 
 
 Where they that run may read 
 Pain and disgrace in many lines, 
 
 As of a loss indeed ; 
 That of our fellows any who 
 
 The prize of love have won 
 May tremble at the thought to do 
 
 The thing that we have done ! 
 
mf2 
 
 HOWE. 
 
 289 
 
 ALL THINGS ONCE ARE THINGS 
 FOR EVER. 
 
 All things oneo are things forever; 
 Soul, once living, lives for ever; 
 Bla]ne not \vliat is only once. 
 When tliat once endures for ever; 
 Love, once felt, though soon forgot 
 Moulds the heart to good for ever ; 
 
 Once betrayed from childly faith, 
 Man is conscious man for ever; 
 Once the void of life revealed, 
 It must dee^jen on for ever. 
 Unless God fill up the heart 
 Witli himself for once and ever: 
 Once made God and man at once, 
 God and man are one for ever. 
 
 Julia Ward Howe. 
 
 BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 
 
 coming of the Lord ; 
 He is tramiDling out the vintage where 
 
 the grapes of wrath are stored ; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning 
 
 of his terrible swift sword, 
 His trutli is marching on. 
 
 I have' seen him in the watch-fires of 
 a hundred circling camps; 
 
 They have builded him an altar in the 
 evening dews and damps ; 
 
 I can read his righteous sentence by 
 the dim and flaring lamps. 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel, writ in bui-- 
 
 nished rows of steel: 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so 
 
 with you my grace shall deal ; 
 Let the hero, born of woman, crush 
 
 the serpent with his heel. 
 Since God is marching on ! " 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that 
 shall never call retreat ; 
 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men be- 
 fore his judgment-seat ; 
 
 Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer him ! 
 be jubilant, my feet ! 
 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was 
 born across the sea. 
 
 With a glory in his bosom that trans- 
 figures you and me ; 
 
 As he died to make men holy, let us 
 die to make men free, 
 
 While God is marching on ! 
 
 [From Thouyhts in Pere la Chaise.] 
 
 IMAGINED REPLY OF E LOIS A TO 
 THE POET'S QUESTIONING. 
 
 ' ' What was I cannot tell — thou 
 know' St our story. 
 
 Know' St how we stole God's treasure 
 from on high ; 
 
 Without heaven's virtue we had heav- 
 en's glory. 
 
 Too justly our delights were doomed 
 to die. 
 
 " Intense as were our blisses, e'en so 
 painful 
 
 The keen privation it was ours to 
 share ; 
 
 All states, all places barren proved 
 and baneful. 
 
 Dead stones grew pitiful at our de- 
 spair; 
 
 "Till, to the cloister's solitude re- 
 pairing. 
 
 Our feet the way of holier sorrows 
 trod , 
 
 Hid from each other, yet together 
 sharing 
 
 The labor of the Providence of God. 
 
 
290 
 
 HOWE. 
 
 " Often at midnight, on the cold stone 
 
 My passionate sobs have rent the pas- 
 sive air, 
 
 While iny crisped fingers clutched the 
 pavement, trying 
 
 To hold him fast, as he had still been 
 there. 
 
 " I called, I shrieked, till my spent 
 
 breath came faintly, 
 I sank, in pain Christ's martyrs could 
 
 not bear; 
 Then dreamed I saw him, beautiful 
 
 and saintly. 
 As his far convent tolled the hour of 
 
 prayer. 
 
 " Solemn and deep that vision of re- 
 union — 
 
 He passed in robe, and cowl, and san- 
 dall'd feet, 
 
 But ovu- dissever' d lips held no com- 
 munion. 
 
 Our long divorced glances could not 
 meet. 
 
 " Then slowly, from that hunger of 
 sensation. 
 
 That rage for happiness, which makes 
 it sin, 
 
 I rose to calmer, wider contemplation, 
 
 And knew the Holiest, and his disci- 
 pline. 
 
 ''O thou who call' St on me! if that 
 thou bearest 
 
 A wounded heart beneath thy wom- 
 an's vest. 
 
 If thou my mournful earthly fortune 
 sharest. 
 
 Share the high hopes that calmed my 
 fever' d breast. 
 
 "Not vainly do I boast Eeligion's 
 power, 
 
 Faith dawned upon the eyes with Sor- 
 row dim ; 
 
 I toiled and trusted, till there came 
 an hovu 
 
 That saw me sleep in God, and wake 
 with him. 
 
 " Seek comfort thus, for all life's 
 painful losing. 
 
 Compel from Sorrow merit and re- 
 ward. 
 
 And sometimes wile a mournful hour 
 in musing 
 
 How Eloisa loved her Abelard." 
 
 The voice fled heav'nward ere its 
 spell was broken, — 
 
 I stretched a tremulous hand within 
 the grate. 
 
 And bore away a ravished rose, in 
 token 
 
 Of woman's highest love and hard- 
 est fate. 
 
 STANZAS FllOM THE " TRIBUTE 
 TO A SERVANT." 
 
 Oh! grief that wring' st mine eyes 
 
 with tears. 
 Demand not from my lips a song ; 
 That fated gift of early years 
 I've loved too well, I've nursed too 
 
 long. 
 
 Wliat boot my verses to the heart 
 That breath of mine no more shall 
 
 stir ? 
 Where were the piety of Art, 
 If thou wert silent over her ? 
 
 This was a maiden, light of foot, 
 Whose bloom and laughter, fresh and 
 
 free. 
 Flitted like sunshine, in and out 
 Among my little ones and me. 
 
 Hers was the poAver to quell and 
 
 charm ; 
 The ready wit that children love ; 
 The faithful breast, the shielding 
 
 arm 
 Pillowed in sleep my tenderest dove. 
 
 She played in all the nurseiy plays, 
 She ruled in all its little strife; 
 A thousand genial ways endeared 
 Her presence to my daily life. 
 
She ranged my liair with gem or 
 
 flower. 
 Careful, the festal draperies hung, 
 Or plied her needle, horn- by hour 
 In cadence with the song 1 sung. 
 
 My highest joy she could not share, 
 Nor fathom sorrow's deep abyss; 
 For that, she wore a smiling air, 
 She hung her head and pined for this. 
 
 " And she shall live with me," I said, 
 " Till all my pretty ones be grown; 
 I'll give my girls my little maid, 
 The gayest thing I call my own." 
 
 Or else, methought, some farmer bold 
 
 Should woo and win my gentle Liz- 
 zie, 
 
 And I should stock her house four- 
 fold. 
 
 Be with her wedding blithely busy. 
 
 But lo! Consumption's spectral form 
 Sucks from her lips the flickering 
 
 breath ; 
 In these pale flowers, these tear-drops 
 
 warm, 
 I bring the momnif ul dower of Death. 
 
 I could but say, with faltering voice 
 And eyes that glanced aside to weep, 
 " Be strong in faith and hope, my 
 
 child; 
 He giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 " And though thou walk the shadowy 
 
 vale. 
 Whose end we know not. He will aid ; 
 His rod and staff shall stay thy steps ; " 
 "I know it well," she smiled and said. 
 
 She knew it well, and knew yet more 
 My deepest hope, though unexprest, 
 The hope that God's appointed sleep 
 But heightens ravishment with rest. 
 
 My children, living flowers, shall come 
 And strew with seed this grave of 
 
 thine. 
 And bid the blushing growths of 
 
 spring 
 Thy dreary painted cross entwine. 
 
 Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, 
 Shall rest in emblems of her own; 
 Beauty, still springing from Decay, 
 The cross- wood budding to the crown. 
 
 THE DEAD CHRIST. 
 
 Take the dead Christ to my chamber, 
 
 The Christ I brought from Rome ; 
 Over all the tossing ocean. 
 
 He has reached his western home; 
 Bear him as in procession, 
 
 And lay him solemnly 
 Where, through weary night and 
 morning, 
 
 He shall bear me company. 
 
 The name I bear is other 
 
 Than than that I bore by birth, 
 And I've given life to children 
 
 Who'll grow and dwell on earth; 
 But the time comes swiftly towards 
 me 
 
 (jSJ"or do I bid it stay), 
 When the dead Christ will be more 
 to me 
 
 Than all I hold to-day. 
 
 Lay the dead Christ beside me. 
 
 Oh, press him on my heart, 
 I would hold him long and painfully 
 
 Till the weary tears should start; 
 Till the divine contagion 
 
 Heal me of self and sin, 
 And the cold weight press wholly 
 down 
 
 The pulse that chokes within. 
 
 Reproof and frost, they fret me. 
 
 Towards the free, the sunny lands. 
 From the chaos of existence 
 
 I stretch these feeble hands ; 
 And, penitential, kneeling, 
 
 Pray God would not be wroth. 
 Who gave not the strength of feeling. 
 
 And strength of labor both. 
 
 Thou'rt but a wooden carving. 
 Defaced of worms, and old ; 
 
 Yet more to me thou couldst not be 
 Wert thou all wrapt in gold • 
 
292 
 
 HO WELLS. 
 
 Like the gem-bedizened baby 
 Wliicli, at tlie Twelftli-day noon, 
 
 They show t'roni tlie Ara Coeli's steps, 
 To a uierry dancing-tune. 
 
 I ask of tliee no wonders. 
 No changing white or red ; 
 
 I dream not thou art hving, 
 I love and prize tliee dead. 
 
 Tliat salutary deadness 
 I seek, through want and pain, 
 
 From which God's own high power 
 can bid 
 Oui" virtue rise again. 
 
 William Deane Howells. 
 
 THE MYSTERIES. 
 
 Once on my mother's breast, a child, 
 I crept, 
 Holding my breath ; 
 There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, 
 and wept 
 At the dark mystery of Death. 
 
 Weary and weak, and worn with all 
 unrest, 
 Spent with the strife. — 
 O motlier, let me weep upon thy 
 breast 
 At the sad mystery of Life ! 
 
 THANKS GI VING. 
 
 Lord, for the erring thought 
 Not into evil wrought: 
 Lord, for the wicked will 
 Betrayed and baffled still : 
 For the heart from itself kept. 
 Our thanksgiving accept. 
 
 For ignorant hopes that were 
 Broken to our blind prayer: 
 For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
 Unto our chastisement : 
 For all loss of seeming good. 
 Quicken our gratitude. 
 
 convention: 
 
 He falters on the threshold. 
 She lingers on the stair; 
 
 Can it be that was his footstep ? 
 Can it be that she is there ? 
 
 Without is tender yearning. 
 And tender love is within ; 
 
 They can hear each other's heart- 
 beats. 
 But a wooden door is between. 
 
 the POET'S FRIENDS. 
 
 The robin sings in the elm ; 
 
 The cattle stand beneath 
 Sedate and grave with great brown 
 eyes 
 
 And fragrant meadow-breath. 
 
 They listen to the flattered bird. 
 The wise-looking, stupid things; 
 
 And they never understand a word 
 Of all the robin sings. 
 
 THE MULBERRIES. 
 
 On the Rialto Bridge we stand ; 
 The street ebbs under and makes 
 no sound ; 
 But, with bargains shrieked on every 
 hand. 
 The noisy market rings aromid. 
 
 " Mttlberries, fine mulberries, here! "' 
 A tuneful voice, — and light, light 
 measure ; 
 Though I hardly should coimt tliese 
 mulberries dear, 
 If I paid three times the price for 
 my pleasm-e. 
 
HO WE LIS. 
 
 293 
 
 Brown hands splashed with mulberry 
 blood, 
 The basket wreathed with mulber- 
 ry leaves 
 Hiding the berries beneath them; — 
 good! 
 Let us take whatever the young 
 rogue gives. 
 
 For you know, old friend, I haven 't 
 eaten 
 A mulberry since the ignorant joy 
 Of anything sweet in the mouth could 
 sweeten 
 All this bitter world for a boy. 
 
 O. I mind the tree in the meadow 
 stood 
 By the road near the hill: where I 
 climbed aloof 
 On its branches, this side of the gir- 
 dled wood, 
 I could see the top of our cabin 
 roof. 
 
 And, looking westward, coidd sweep 
 the shores 
 Of the river where we used to swim, 
 Uniler the ghostly sycamores. 
 
 Haunting the waters smooth and 
 dim ; 
 
 And eastward athwart the pasture- 
 lot 
 And over the milk-white buck- 
 wheat field 
 I coidd see the stately elm, where I 
 shot 
 The first black squirrel I ever 
 killed. 
 
 And southward over the bottom-land 
 I could see the mellow breadth of 
 farm 
 From the river-shores to the hills 
 expand. 
 Clasped in the curving river's 
 arm. 
 
 In the fields we set our guileless 
 snares 
 For rabbits and i^igeons and wary 
 quails, 
 
 Content with vaguest feathers and 
 hairs 
 Fro7n doubtful wings and vanished 
 tails. 
 
 And in the blue siunmer afternoon 
 
 We used to sit in the mulberi^-tree ; 
 The breaths of wind that remem- 
 bered June 
 Shook the leaves and glittering 
 berries free; 
 
 And while we watched the wagons go 
 Across the river, along the road, 
 
 To the mill above, or the mill below, 
 With horses that stooped to the 
 heavy load, 
 
 We told old stories and made new 
 plans. 
 And felt our hearts gladden within 
 us again, 
 For we did not dream that this life of 
 a man's 
 Could ever be what we know as 
 men. 
 
 We sat so still that the woodpeckers 
 came 
 And pillaged the berries overhead; 
 From his log the chipmonk, waxen 
 tame, 
 Peered and listened to what we 
 said. 
 
 One of us long ago was carried 
 
 To his grave on the hill above the 
 tree ; 
 
 One is a farmer there, and married ; 
 One has wandered over the sea. 
 
 And, if you ask me. I hardly know 
 Wh other I'd be the- dead or the 
 clown, — 
 The clod above or the clay below. — 
 Or this listless dust by fortune 
 blown 
 
 To alien lands. For, however it is. 
 So little we keep with us in life ; 
 
 At best we win only victories, 
 Not peace, not peace, O friend, in 
 this strife. 
 
294 
 
 HOW ITT. 
 
 But if I could turn from the long de- 
 feat 
 Of the httle successes once more, 
 and be 
 A boy, with the whole wide world 
 at my feet 
 Under the shade of the mulberry 
 tree, — 
 
 From the shame of tlie squandered 
 chances, the sleep 
 Of the will that cannot itself 
 awaken, 
 From the promise tlie future can 
 never keep. 
 From tlie fitful purposes vague and 
 shaken, — 
 
 Then, while the grasshopper simgout 
 shrill 
 In th(» grass beneath the blanching 
 thistle. 
 And the afternoon air, with a tender 
 thrill. 
 Harked to the quail's complaining 
 whistle, — 
 
 Ah me ! should I paint the morrows 
 again 
 In quite the colors so faint to- 
 day, 
 And with the imperial mulberry's 
 stain 
 Re-purple life's doublet of hodden- 
 gray ? 
 
 Know again the losses of disillu- 
 sion ? 
 For the sake of the hope, have the 
 old deceit ? — 
 In spite of the question's bitter in- 
 fusion. 
 Don't you find these nuilberries 
 over-sweet ? 
 
 All our atoms are clianged, they 
 say; 
 And the taste is so different since 
 then : 
 We live, but a world has passed 
 away. 
 With tlie years that perished to 
 make us men. 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 THE BR O OM-FL O IV Eli. 
 
 Oh, the broom, the yellow broom ! 
 
 The ancient poet sung it, 
 And dear it is on summer days 
 
 To lie at rest among it. 
 
 I know the realms where people say 
 Tlie flowers have not their fellow; 
 
 I know where they shine out like 
 suns, 
 Tlie crimson and the yellow. 
 
 I know where ladies live encliained 
 
 In luxury's silken fetters. 
 And flowers as bright as glittering 
 gems 
 
 Are used for written letters. 
 
 But ne'er was flower so fair as this. 
 In modern days or olden ; 
 
 It groweth on its nodding stem 
 Like to a garland golden. 
 
 And all about my mother's door 
 Shine out its glittering bushes. 
 
 And down the glen, where clear as 
 light 
 Tlie mountain-water gushes. 
 
 Take all tlie rest; but give me 
 this, 
 
 And the bird that nestles in it; 
 I love it, for it loves the broom — 
 
 The green and yellow linnet. 
 
 Well, call the rose the queen of flow- 
 ers, 
 
 And boast of that of Sharon, 
 Of lilies like to marble cups. 
 
 And the golden rod of xiaron ; 
 
HO WITT. 
 
 295 
 
 I care not how these flowers may be 
 Beloved of man and Avoman ; 
 
 The broom it Is the flower for me, 
 That groweth on the conunon. 
 
 Oh, the broom, the yellow brpom! 
 
 The ancient poet sung it, 
 And dear it is on summer days 
 
 To lie and rest among it. 
 
 TIBBIE INGLIS. 
 
 Bonnie Tibbie Inglis! 
 
 Through sun and stormy weather, 
 She kept upon the broomy hills 
 
 Her father's flock together. 
 
 Sixteen summers had she seen, — 
 A rosebud just unsealing; 
 
 Without sorrow, without fear. 
 In her mountain shealing. 
 
 She was made for happy thoughts, 
 For playful wit and laughter; 
 
 Singing on the hills alone. 
 With echo singing after. 
 
 She had hair as deeply black 
 
 As the cloud of thunder; 
 She had brows so beautiful. 
 
 And dark eyes flashing under. 
 
 Bright and witty shepherd girl, 
 Beside a mountain water, 
 
 I found her, whom a king himself 
 Would proudly call his daughter. 
 
 She was sitting 'niong the crags. 
 Wild and mossed and hoary, 
 
 Reading in an ancient book 
 Some old martyr story. 
 
 Tears were starting to her eyes, 
 Solemn thought was o'er her; 
 
 When she saw in that lone place 
 A stranger stand before her. 
 
 Crimson was her sunny cheek, 
 And lier lips seemed moving 
 
 With the beatings of her lieart; — 
 How could I help loving ? 
 
 On a crag I sat me down. 
 
 Upon the mountain hoary, 
 And made her read again to me 
 
 That old pathetic story. 
 
 Then she sang me mountain songs, 
 
 Till the air was ringing 
 With her clear and warbling voiee, 
 
 Like a skylark singing. 
 
 And when eve came on at length, 
 Among the blooming heather, 
 
 "We herded on the mountain-side 
 Her father's flock together. 
 
 And near unto her father's house 
 I said " Good night ! " with sorrow, 
 
 And inly wished that I might say, 
 " We'll meet again to-morrow." 
 
 I watched her tripping to her home ; 
 
 I saw her meet her mother ; 
 '' Among a thousand maids," I cried, 
 
 " There is not such another! " 
 
 I wandered to my scholar's home, 
 It lonesome looked and dreary; 
 
 I took my books, but could not read, 
 Methought that I was weary. 
 
 I laid me down upon my bed. 
 My heart with sadness laden ; 
 
 I dreamed but of the mountain world. 
 And of the moimtain maiden. 
 
 I saw her of the ancient book 
 The pages turning slowly ; 
 
 I saw her lovely crimson cheek 
 And dark eyes drooping lowly. 
 
 The dream was like the day's delight, 
 A life of pain's o'erpayment: 
 
 I rose, and with unwonted care, 
 Put on my Sabbath raiment. 
 
 To none I told my secret thoughts. 
 
 Not even to my mother, 
 Nor to the friend who, from my youth, 
 
 Was dear as is a brother. 
 
 I got me to the hills again; 
 
 The little flock was feeding: 
 And there young Tibbie Inglis sat. 
 
 But not the old book reading. 
 
She sat as if absorbing thought 
 With heavy spells had bound her, 
 
 As silent as the mossy crags 
 Upon the mountains round her. 
 
 I thought not of my Sabbath dress ; 
 
 I thought not of my learning: 
 I thouglit but of the gentle maid 
 
 Who, 1 believed, was mourning. 
 
 Bonnie Tibbie Inglis! 
 
 How her beauty brightened 
 Looking at me, half-abashed, 
 
 With eyes that flamed and light- 
 ened ! 
 
 There was no sorrow, then I saw, 
 There was no thought of sadness : 
 
 life! what after-joy hast thou 
 Like love's first certain gladness? 
 
 1 sat me down among the crags. 
 Upon the moinitain hoary; 
 
 But read not then the ancient book, — 
 Love was our pleasant story. 
 
 And then she sang me songs again. 
 
 Old songs of love and sorrow : 
 For our sufficient happiness 
 
 Great charms from woe could bor- 
 row. 
 
 And many hours we talked in joy. 
 Yet too much blessed for laughter: 
 
 I was a bappy man that day. 
 And happy ever after ! 
 
 William Howitt. 
 
 DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 And is the swallow gone ? 
 
 Who beheld it ? 
 
 Which way sailed it ? 
 Farewell bade it none ? 
 
 No mortal saw it go: — 
 But who doth hear 
 Its summer cheer 
 
 As it flitteth to and fro ? 
 
 So the freed spirit flies ! 
 
 From its surrounding clay- 
 It steals away 
 
 Like the swallow from the skies. 
 
 Whither ? wherefore doth it go ? 
 
 'Tis all unknown; 
 
 AVe feel alone 
 What a void is left below. 
 
 Ralph Hoyt. 
 
 OLD. 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly mus- 
 ing; 
 Oft I marked him sitting there 
 alone. 
 All the landscape like a page perus- 
 ing; 
 
 Poor, unknown — 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad- 
 rimmed hat; 
 Coat as ancient as the form 'twas 
 folding; 
 Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt 
 cravat ; 
 Oaken staff, liis feeble hand up- 
 holding — 
 There he sat ! 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad- 
 rimmed hat. 
 
HOYT. 
 
 297 
 
 Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
 No one sympathizing, no one heed- 
 ing — 
 None to love him for his thin gray 
 hair. 
 And the furrows all so mutely 
 pleading 
 Age and care — 
 Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 
 
 It was summer, and we went to 
 school — 
 Dapper coimtry lads, and little 
 maidens ; 
 Taught the motto of the "Dunce's 
 stool," 
 Its grave import still my fancy 
 ladens — 
 
 " Here's a fool!" 
 It was summer, and we went to 
 school. 
 
 Wlien the stranger seemed to mark 
 our play. 
 Some of us were joyous, some sad- 
 hearted ; 
 I remember well — too well that day ! 
 Oftentimes the tears unbidden 
 started. 
 Would not stay, 
 Wlien the stranger seemed to mark 
 our play. 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent 
 spell — 
 Ah, to me her name was always 
 heaven ! 
 She besought him all his grief to tell, 
 (I was then thirteen, and she 
 eleven,) — 
 Isabel ! 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent 
 spell. 
 
 "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old — 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a 
 morrow ; 
 Yet why I sit here thou shalt be 
 
 told," 
 Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sor- 
 row; 
 Down it rolled. 
 " Angel," said he sadly. " I am old! 
 
 ' ' I have tottered here to look once 
 more 
 On the pleasant scene where I de- 
 lighted 
 In the careless happy days of yore, 
 Ere the garden of my heart was 
 blighted 
 
 To the core — 
 I have tottered here to look once 
 more ! 
 
 ' ' All the picture now to me how 
 dear ! 
 E'en this gray old rock where I am 
 seated 
 Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 
 Ah, that such a scene must be 
 completed 
 With a tear! 
 All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 "Old stone school-house! — it is still 
 the same ! 
 There's the very step I so oft 
 mounted ; 
 There's the window creaking in its 
 frame, 
 And the notches that I cut and 
 counted 
 
 For the game ; 
 Old stone school-house! — it is still 
 the same ! 
 
 " In the cottage yonder, I was born; 
 Long my happy home — that hum- 
 ble dwelling; 
 There the fields of clover, wheat, and 
 corn — 
 There the spring, with limpid nec- 
 tar swelling"; 
 Ah, forlorn! 
 In the cottage yonder, I was born. 
 
 ' ' Those two gateway sycamores you 
 see 
 Then were planted just so far 
 as under 
 That long well-pole from the path to 
 free, 
 And the wagon to pass safely under ; 
 Ninety-three ! 
 Those two gateway sycamores you 
 see. 
 
298 
 
 IIOYT. 
 
 " There's the orchard where we used 
 to climb 
 When my mates and I were boys 
 together — 
 Thinking nothing of tlie fliglit of 
 time, 
 Fearing nauglit but work and rainy 
 weatlier; 
 
 Past its prime ! 
 There's tlie orcliard where we used to 
 cUmb ! 
 
 "There tlie rude, three-cornered 
 chestnut rails, 
 Eound the pasture where the flocks 
 were grazing. 
 Where, so sly, I used to watch for 
 quails 
 In the crops of buckwheat we were 
 raising — 
 
 Traps and trails ; 
 There the rude, three-cornered chest- 
 nut rails. 
 
 " There's the mill that ground our yel- 
 low grain — 
 Pond, and river, still serenely flow- 
 ing; 
 Cot, there nestling in the shaded 
 lane 
 Where the lily of my heart was 
 blowing — 
 Mary Jane! 
 There's the mill tliat ground our yel- 
 low grain ! 
 
 " There's the gate on which I used to 
 swing — 
 Brook, and bridge, and barn, and 
 old red stable ; 
 But alas! no more the morn shall 
 bring 
 That dear group around my father's 
 table — 
 
 Taken wing! 
 There's the gate on which I used to 
 
 swing 
 
 "I am fleeing — all I loved have 
 fled. 
 Yon green meadow was oiu' place 
 for playing; 
 
 That old tree can tell of sweet things 
 said 
 When around it Jane and I were 
 straying — 
 She is dead ! 
 I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 
 
 • ■ Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. 
 Tracing silently life's changeful 
 story, 
 So familiar to my dim old eye. 
 Points me to seven that are now in 
 glory 
 
 There on high — 
 Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 
 
 " Oft the aisle of that old church we 
 trod. 
 Guided thither by an angel mother; 
 Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
 Sire and sisters, and my little 
 brother 
 Gone to God ! 
 Oft the aisle of that old church we 
 trod. 
 
 '• There 1 heard of wisdom's pleasant 
 ways — 
 Bless the holy lesson ! — but, ah ! 
 never 
 Shall I hear again those songs of 
 praise. 
 Those sweet voices — silent now 
 forever! 
 
 Peaceful days! 
 There I heard of wisdom's pleasant 
 ways. 
 
 ' ' Tliere my Mary blessed me with her 
 hand 
 When our souls drank in the nup- 
 tial blessing, 
 Ere she hastened to the spirit-land — 
 Yonder turf her gentle bosom 
 pressing; 
 
 Broken band ! 
 There my Mai^ blessed me with her 
 hand. 
 
 ' • I have come to see that grave once 
 more. 
 And the sacred place where we de- 
 lighted. 
 
HUNT. 
 
 299 
 
 Where we worshipped, in the days of 
 yore, 
 Ere the garden of my heart was 
 blighted 
 To tlie core ; 
 I have come to see tliat grave once 
 more. 
 
 "Angel," said he sadly, " I am old — 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a 
 
 morrow ; 
 Now why I sit here thou hast been 
 
 told," 
 
 In his eye another pearl of sorrow ; 
 Down it rolled ! 
 "Angel," said he sadly, "I am old! 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 Sat the hoary pilgrim sadly nuis- 
 ing; 
 Still I marked him sitting there 
 alone. 
 All the landscape like a page 
 perusing — 
 
 Poor, unknown. 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe in- 
 crease!) 
 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream 
 of peace. 
 
 And saw within the moonlight in 
 his room. 
 
 Making it rich and like a lily in 
 bloom. 
 
 An angel writing in a book of gold : 
 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Ad- 
 hem bold. 
 
 And to the presence in the room he 
 said, 
 
 "What writest thou?" The vision 
 raised its head. 
 
 And, with a look made of all sweet 
 accord. 
 
 Answered. " The names of those who 
 love the Lord." 
 
 " And, is mine one?" said Abou. 
 " Nay, not so," 
 
 Replied the angel. Abou spoke more 
 low. 
 
 But cheerly still ; and said, "I pray 
 thee, then. 
 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow- 
 men." 
 
 The angel wrote, and vanished. The 
 
 next night 
 It came again, with a great wakening 
 
 light. 
 
 And showed the names whom love of 
 
 God had blessed, — 
 And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all 
 
 rest ! 
 
 STANZAS FROM SONG OF THE 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 We are the sweet flowers. 
 Born of sunny showers, 
 (Think, whene'er you see us what our 
 beauty saith;) 
 Utterance, mute and bright. 
 Of some xmknown delight. 
 We fill the air with pleasau'e by our 
 simple breath: 
 All who see us love us — 
 We befit all i^laces, 
 Unto sorrow we give smiles — and 
 unto graces, graces. 
 
 Mark our ways, how noiseless 
 All, and sweetly voiceless. 
 Though the March winds pipe to make 
 our passage clear; 
 Not a whisper tells 
 Where our small seed dwells 
 Nor is known the moment green when 
 our tips appear. 
 We thread the earth in silence 
 In silence build our bowers — 
 And leaf by leaf in silence show, till 
 we laugh a-top, sweet flowers! 
 
3U0 
 
 HUNT. 
 
 See (and scorn all duller 
 Taste) how Heaven loves color; 
 How great Nature, clearly, joys in red 
 and green; 
 What sweet thoughts she thinks 
 Of violets and pinks, 
 And a thousand flushing hues made 
 solely to be seen : 
 See her whitest lilies 
 Chill the silver showers, 
 And what a red mouth is her rose, 
 the woman of the flowers. 
 
 Uselessness divinest. 
 Of a use the finest, 
 Painteth us, the teachers of the end 
 of use ; 
 Travellers, weary-eyed, 
 Bless us, far and wide ; 
 Unto sick and prisoned thoughts we 
 give sudden truce: 
 Not a poor town window 
 Loves its sickliest planting, 
 But its wall s])eaks loftier truth than 
 Babylonian vaunting. 
 
 Sagest yet the uses 
 Mixed with our sweet juices. 
 Whether man or May-fly profit of the 
 balm ; 
 As fair fingers healed 
 Knights from the olden field. 
 We hold cups of mightiest force to 
 give the wildest calm. 
 Even the terror, poison, 
 Hath its plea for blooming; 
 Life it gives to reverent lips, though 
 death to the presuming. 
 
 Think of all these treasures, 
 Matchless works and pleasures 
 Every one a marvel, more than 
 thought can say ; 
 Then think in what bright show- 
 ers 
 We thicken fields and bowei's. 
 And with what heaps of sweetness 
 half stifle wanton May: 
 Think of the mossy forests 
 By the bee-birds haunted. 
 And all those Amazonian plains lone 
 lying as enchanted. 
 
 Trees themselves are ours : 
 Fruits are born of flowers; 
 Peach and roughest nut were blos- 
 soms in the spring; 
 Tlie lusty bee knows well 
 The news, and comes pell-mell, 
 And dances in the gloomy thicks with 
 darksome antheming; 
 Beneatli the very burden 
 Of planet-pressing ocean. 
 We wash our smiling cheeks in peace 
 — a thought for meek devotion. 
 
 Who shall say that flowers 
 Dress not heaven's own bowers ? 
 Who its love, without us, can fancy — 
 or sweet floor ? 
 Who shall even dare 
 To say we sprang not there — 
 And came not down, that Love might 
 bring one piece of heaven the 
 more ? 
 Oh ! pray believe that angels 
 From those blue dominions 
 Brought us in their white laps dowTi, 
 ■ twixt their golden pinions. 
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
 CRICKET. 
 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny 
 grass. 
 
 Catching your heart up at the feel of 
 June, — 
 
 Sole voice that's heard amid the lazy 
 noon, 
 
 When even the bees lag at the sum- 
 moning brass ; 
 
 And you, warm little housekeeper, 
 who class 
 
 With those who think the candles 
 come too soon, 
 
 Loving the fire, and with your trick- 
 some tune 
 
 Nick the glad silent moments as they 
 pass ! 
 
 O sweet and tiny cousins that be- 
 long. 
 
 One to the fields, the other to the 
 hearth. 
 
 'm 
 
INGE LOW. 
 
 301 
 
 Both have your sunshine ; both, 
 though small, are strong 
 
 At your clear hearts ; and both seem 
 given to earth 
 
 To sing in thouglitful ears this nat- 
 ural song, — 
 
 In doors and out, summer and winter, 
 mirth. 
 
 MAY AND THE POETS. 
 
 There is May in books forever; 
 May will part from Spenser never; 
 May's in Milton, May's in Prior, 
 May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; 
 May's in all the Italian books: — 
 She has old and modern nooks, 
 Where she sleeps with nymplis and 
 
 elves. 
 In happy places they call shelves. 
 And will rise and dress your rooms 
 With a drapery tliick with blooms. 
 Come, ye rains, then if ye will. 
 May's at home, and with me still; 
 But come rather, thou, good weather. 
 And find us in the fields together. 
 
 I)EA TH. 
 
 Death is a road our dearest friends 
 
 have gone ; 
 Why with such leaders, fear to say, 
 
 " Lead on ? " 
 Its gate repels, lest it too soon be 
 
 tried. 
 But turns in balm on the immortal 
 
 side. 
 Mothers have ijassed it : fathers, chil- 
 dren; men 
 Whose like we look not to behold 
 
 again ; 
 Women that smiled away their lov- 
 ing breath ; 
 Soft is tlie travelling on the road to 
 
 death ! 
 But guilt has passed it ? men not fit to 
 
 die ? 
 Oh, hush — for He that made us all 
 
 is by! 
 Human we're all — all men, all born 
 
 of mothers ; 
 All our own selves in the worn-out 
 
 shape of others ; 
 Our used, and oh, be sure, not to be 
 
 iii-used brothers ! 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 SONGS OF SEVEN. 
 SEVEN TIMES ONE. — EXULTATION. 
 
 There's no dew left on the daisies and clover, 
 
 There's no rain left in heaven; 
 I've said my " seven times " over and over, 
 
 Seven times one are seven. 
 
 I am old, so old, I can write a letter; 
 
 My birthday lessons are done : 
 The lambs play always, they know no better; 
 
 They are only one times one. 
 
 O moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 
 
 And shininir so round and low; 
 You were briglit! ah, bright! but your light is failing, - 
 
 You are nothing now but a bow. 
 
302 
 
 IN O FLOW. 
 
 You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven 
 
 That God has hidden your face ? 
 I hope if you have, you will soon he forgiven, 
 
 And shine again in your place. 
 
 O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow. 
 
 You've powdered your legs with gold! 
 O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow, 
 
 Give nie your money to hold ! 
 
 O columbine, open your folded wrapper. 
 Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ? 
 
 cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper 
 That hangs in your clear green bell ! 
 
 And show me yoiu- nest with the young ones in it ; 
 I will not steal them away; 
 
 1 am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, — 
 I am seven times one to-day. 
 
 SEVEN TIMES TWO. — IJOMANCE. 
 
 You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, 
 
 How many soever they be, 
 And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges 
 
 Come over, come over to me. 
 
 Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling 
 
 No magical sense conveys, 
 And bells have forgotten their old art of telling 
 
 Tlie fortune of future days. 
 
 " Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily, 
 
 While a boy listened alone; 
 Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily 
 
 All by himself on a stone. 
 
 Poor bells ! I forgive you ; your good days are over, 
 
 And mine, they are yet to be ; 
 No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover 
 
 You leave the stoiy to me. 
 
 The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather 
 
 Preparing her hoods of snow ; 
 She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather : 
 
 Oh I children take long to grow. 
 
 1 wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, 
 
 Nor long summer bide so late ; 
 And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, 
 
 For some things are ill to wait. 
 
 I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, 
 
 While dear hands are laid on my head; 
 " Tlie child is a woman, the book may close over, 
 
 For all the lessons are said." 
 
INGE LOW. 
 
 303 
 
 I wait for my story, — the birds cannot sing it, 
 
 Not one, as lie sits on the tree ; 
 The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh, bring it! 
 
 Such as I wish it to be. 
 
 SEVEX TIMES THREE. — LOVE. 
 
 I leaned out of window, I smelt the white clover. 
 Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; 
 " Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover, — 
 Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, wait 
 Till I listen and hear 
 If a step draweth near. 
 For my lo\ e he is late ! 
 
 " The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 
 
 A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree. 
 The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer: 
 To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see ? 
 Let the star-clusters grow. 
 Let the sweet waters flow. 
 And cross quickly to me. 
 
 " You night-moths that hover where honey brims over 
 
 From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; 
 You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover 
 Tohim that comes darkling along the rough steep. 
 All, my sailor, make haste, 
 For the time runs to waste, 
 And my love lieth deep, — 
 
 " Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, 
 
 I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." 
 By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover, 
 Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; 
 But I'll love him more, more 
 Than e'er wife loved before. 
 Be the days dark or bright. 
 
 SEVEN TIMES FOUR. — MATERNITY. 
 
 Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! 
 
 Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 
 When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses. 
 
 And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small ! 
 Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses, 
 
 Eager to gather them all. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ; 
 
 Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
 Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow. 
 
 That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain; 
 Sing, " Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow, 
 
 Sing once, and sing it again. 
 
INGE LOW. 
 
 ao5 
 
 SEVEN TIMES SIX. — GIVING IN MAEKIAGE. 
 
 To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
 
 To watch, and then to lose : 
 To see my bric^ht ones disappear, 
 
 Drawn \\\) like morning dews, — 
 To bear, to nurse, to rear. 
 
 To watch, and then to lose: 
 This have I done when God drew near 
 
 Among his own to choose. 
 
 To hear, to heed, to wed, 
 
 And with thy lord depart 
 In tears that he, as soon as shed, 
 
 Will let no longer smart, — 
 To hear, to heed, to wed. 
 
 This while thou didst I smiled. 
 For now it was not God who said, 
 
 " Mother, give me thy child." 
 
 O fond, O fool, and blind! 
 
 To (iod I gave with tears ; 
 But when a man like grace would find, 
 
 My soul put by her fears, — 
 O fond, O fool, and blind'. 
 
 God guards in happier spheres ; 
 That man will guard where he did bind 
 
 Is hope for unknown years. 
 
 To hear, to heed, to wed. 
 
 Fair lot that maidens choose. 
 Thy mother's tenderest words are said, 
 
 Thy face no more she views; 
 Thy mother's lot, my dear. 
 
 She doth in naught accuse ; 
 Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear, 
 
 To love, — and then to lose. 
 
 SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 LONGIN/mion.] 
 liEA UTY'S IMMOnTALITY. 
 
 A THING of beauty is a joy forever: 
 Its loveliness increases; it will never 
 Pass into nothingness; but still will 
 
 keep 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and 
 
 quiet breathing. 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we 
 
 wreathing 
 A flowery band to bind us to the 
 
 earth. 
 Spite of despondence, of the inhuman 
 
 dearth 
 pf noble natures, of the gloomy days, 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'er-dark- 
 
 ened ways 
 Made for our searching: yes, in spite 
 
 of all. 
 Some shape of beauty moves away 
 
 the pall 
 From our dark spirits. Such the sun, 
 
 the moon. 
 Trees old and young, sprouting a 
 
 shady boon (dils 
 
 For simple sheep; and such are daffo- 
 With the green world they live in; 
 
 and clear rills 
 That for themselves a cooling covert 
 
 make 
 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest 
 
 brake. 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk- 
 rose blooms : 
 And such too is the grandeur of the 
 
 dooms 
 We have imagined for the mighty 
 
 dead ; 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or 
 
 read : 
 An endless fountain of innnortal 
 
 drink. 
 Pouring unto us from the heaven's 
 
 brink. 
 
 ODE TO A XIGHTIXGALE. 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numb- 
 ness pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I 
 had drunk. 
 
KEATS. 
 
 313 
 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the 
 drains 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards 
 had sunk: 
 'Tis not througli envy of thy happy 
 lot, 
 But heing too happy in tliy happi- 
 ness. — 
 That tliou, Uglit-winged Dryad of 
 tlie trees. 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and sliadows num- 
 berless, 
 Singest of s«nnner in full-throated 
 ease. 
 
 Oh, for a draught of vintage, that 
 hath been 
 Cooled a long age in the deep- 
 delved earth. 
 Tasting of Flora and the country- 
 green. 
 Dance, and Provencal song, and 
 sunburnt mirth ! 
 Oh, for a beaker full of the warm 
 South ! 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hip- 
 
 pocrene. 
 "With beaded bubbles winking at 
 the biini, 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the 
 world unseen. 
 And with thee fade away into the 
 forest dim! 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite 
 forget 
 What fhou among the leaves hast 
 never known. 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 Here, where men sit and hear each 
 other groan ; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last 
 gray hairs. 
 Where youth grows pale, and spec- 
 tre-thin, and dies; 
 Where but to think is to be full of 
 sorrow 
 And leaden-eyed despairs; 
 Where beauty cannot keep her lus- 
 trous eyes. 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his 
 pards, 
 But on the viewless wings of poesy, 
 Though the dull brain perplexes 
 and retards: 
 Already with thee! tender is the 
 night. 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on 
 her throne, [fays; 
 
 Clustered around by all her starry 
 But here there is no light. 
 Save what from heaven is M'ith the 
 breezes blown 
 Through verdurous glooms and 
 winding mossy ways. 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my 
 feet. 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon 
 the boughs. 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess 
 each sweet 
 Wherewith the seasonable month 
 endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit- 
 tree wild ; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral 
 
 eglantine; 
 Fast-fading violets covered up in 
 leaves ; 
 And mid-May's eldest child. 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewj 
 wine. 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on 
 summer eves. 
 
 Darkling I listen; and for many a 
 time 
 I have been half in love with ease- 
 ful Death, 
 Called him soft names in many a 
 mused rliyme, 
 To take into the air my quiet 
 breath; [die. 
 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to 
 To cease upon the midnight with 
 
 no pain. 
 While thou art pouring forth thy 
 soul abroad 
 In such an ecstasy! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and 1 have 
 ears in vain. — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
314 
 
 KEBLE. 
 
 Tliou wast not born for death, im- 
 mortal bird ! 
 No himgry generations tread thee 
 down ; 
 The voice 1 liear tliis passing niglit 
 was lieai'd 
 In ancient days by emperor and 
 clown : 
 Perhaps the self-same song that 
 found a path 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, 
 
 when sick for home 
 She stood in tears amid the alien 
 corn ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charmed magic casements, opening 
 on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faeiy lands for- 
 lorn. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 To toll me back from thee to my 
 sole self ! 
 Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so 
 well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving 
 elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem 
 fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the 
 
 still stream. 
 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis 
 buried deep 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 Fled is that music : — do I wake or 
 sleep ? 
 
 OJST READING CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 
 
 Much have I travelled in the realms 
 of gold, 
 xind many goodly states and king- 
 doms seen ; 
 Round many western islands have 
 I been « 
 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been 
 told 
 That deep-browed Homer ruled as 
 
 his demesne : 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure 
 serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud 
 
 and bold: 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the 
 skies 
 When a new planet swims into his 
 ken; 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle 
 eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific, — and all 
 his men 
 Looked at each other with a wild 
 surmise, — 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 John Keble. 
 
 WHERE IS THY FAVORED HAUNT? 
 
 Where is thy favored haunt, eter- 
 nal voice. 
 The region of thy choice. 
 Where undisturbed by sin and earth, 
 the soul 
 Owns thy entire control ? 
 'Tis on the mountain's siunmit dark 
 and high, 
 When storms are hurrying by : 
 'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of 
 the earth. 
 Where torrents have their birth. 
 
 Xo sounds of worldly toil ascending 
 there, 
 Mar the full burst of prayer; 
 Lone Natiu'e feels that she may free- 
 ly breathe. 
 And round us and beneath 
 Are heard her sacred tones: the fit- 
 fid sweep 
 Of Winds across the steep, 
 Through withered bents — romantic 
 note and clear. 
 Meet for a hermit's ear, — 
 
KEBLE. 
 
 315 
 
 The wheeling kite's wild solitary 
 cry, 
 And scarcely heard so liigh, 
 The dashing waters when the air is 
 still. 
 From many a torrent rill 
 That winds nnseen beneath the 
 shaggy fell. 
 Tracked by the blue mist well : 
 Such sounds as make deep silence in 
 the heart, 
 For Thought to do her part. 
 
 'Tis then we hear the voice of God 
 within. 
 Pleading with care and sin ; 
 " Child of my love! how have 1 wear- 
 ied thee ? 
 Why wilt thou err from me ? 
 Have I not brought thee from the 
 house of slaves ; 
 Parted the drowning waves, 
 And sent my saints before thee in 
 the way, 
 Lest thou should' St faint or 
 stray > 
 
 " What was the promise made to thee 
 alone ? 
 Art thou the excepted one ? 
 An heir of glory without grief or 
 pain '? 
 O vision false and vain! 
 There lies thy cross; beneath it 
 meekly bow, 
 It fits thy stature now: 
 Who scornful pass it with averted 
 eye, 
 'Twill crush them by and by. 
 
 " Raise thy repining eyes, and take 
 true measure 
 Of thine eternal treasure ; 
 The father of tliy Lord can grudge 
 thee nought, 
 The world for thee was bought, 
 And as this landscape broad — earth, 
 sea. and sky, — 
 All centres in thine eye. 
 So all (4od does if rightly rnider- 
 stood. 
 Shall work thy final good." 
 
 WHY SHOULD WE FAINT AND 
 FEAH TO LIVE ALONE? 
 
 Why should we faint anil fear to 
 live alone, 
 Since all alone, so heaven has 
 willed, we die ? 
 Xot even the tenderest heart, and 
 next our own. 
 Knows half the reasons why we 
 smile and sigh. 
 
 Each in his hidden sphere of joy or 
 woe 
 Our hermit spirits dwell, and range 
 apart. 
 Our eyes see all around in gloom or 
 glow — 
 Hues of their own, fresh borrowed 
 from the heart. 
 
 And well it is for us our God should 
 feel 
 Alone our secret throbbings : so om- 
 prayer 
 May readier spring to heaven, nor 
 spend its zeal 
 On cloud-born idols of this lower 
 air. 
 
 For if one heart in perfect sympathy 
 Beat with another, answering love 
 for love. 
 Weak mortals all entranced on earth 
 would lie ; 
 Xor listen for those purer strains 
 above. 
 
 Or what if heaven for once its search- 
 ing light [all 
 Lent to some partial eye. disclosing 
 The rude bad thoughts, that in our 
 bosom's night 
 Wander at large, nor heed Love's 
 gentle thrall ? 
 
 Who would not shun the dreary un- 
 couth place ? 
 As if, fond leaning where her in- 
 fant slept, 
 A mother's arm a serpent should em- 
 brace : 
 So miglit we friendless live, and 
 die unwept. 
 
316 
 
 KEBLE. 
 
 Then keep the softening veil in mer- 
 cy drawn, 
 Thou who canst love us, though 
 thou read us true. 
 As on the bosom of the aerial lawn 
 Melts in dim haze each coarse un- 
 gentle hue. 
 
 So too may soothing hope thy leave 
 enjoy 
 Sweet visions of long severed 
 hearts to frame : 
 Though absence may impair, or cares 
 annoy, 
 Some constant mind may draw us 
 still the same. 
 
 SINCE ALL THAT IS NOT HEAVEN 
 MUST FADE. 
 
 Since all that is not heaven must 
 
 fade, 
 Liglit be the hand of ruin laid 
 
 Upon the home I love: 
 With lulling spell let soft decay 
 Steal on, and spare the giant sway, 
 
 The crash of tower aiid grove. 
 
 Far opening down some woodland 
 
 deep 
 In their own quiet dale should sleep 
 
 The relics dear to thought. 
 And wild-flower wreaths from side to 
 
 side 
 Their waving tracery hang, to hide 
 What ruthless time has wrought. 
 
 Such are the visions green and 
 
 sweet 
 That o'er the wistful fancy fleet 
 
 In Asia's sea-like plain. 
 Where slowly, round his isles of 
 
 sand, 
 Euphrates throiTgh the lonely land 
 Winds toward the pearly main. 
 
 Slumber is there, but not of rest; 
 There her forlorn and weary nest 
 
 The famished liawk has found. 
 The wild dog howls at fall of night, 
 The serpent's rustling coils affright 
 
 The traveller on his round. I 
 
 What shapeless form, half lost on 
 
 high. 
 Half seen against the evening sky, 
 
 Seems like a ghost to glitle. 
 And watch from Babel's crumbling 
 
 heap. 
 Where in her shadow, fast asleep, 
 Lies fallen imperial pride ? 
 
 With half-closed eye a lion there 
 Is basking in his noontide lair 
 
 Or prowls in twilight gloom. 
 The golden city's king he seems. 
 Such as in old prophetic dreams 
 
 Sprang from rough ocean's womb. 
 
 But where are now his eagle wings, 
 That sheltered erst a thoiisand kings, 
 
 Hiding the glorious sky 
 From half the nations, till they own 
 No holier name, no mightier throne ? 
 
 That vision is gone by. 
 
 Quenched is the golden statue's ray. 
 The breath of heaven has blown 
 away 
 What toiling earth had piled, 
 Scattering wise heart and crafty 
 
 hand. 
 As breezes strew on ocean's sand. 
 The fabrics of a child. 
 
 Divided thence through every age 
 Thy rebels, Ijord, their warfare wage, 
 
 And hoarse and jarring all 
 Mount up their heaven-assailing cries 
 To thy bright watchman in the skies 
 
 From Babel's shattered wall. 
 
 Thrice only since, with blended 
 
 might 
 The nations on that haughty height 
 
 Have met to scale the heaven : 
 Thrice only might a seraph's look 
 A moment's shade of sadness brook; 
 
 Such power to guilt was given. 
 
 Now the fierce Bear and Leopard 
 
 keen 
 Are perished as they ne'er had been, 
 
 Oblivion is their home: 
 Ambition's lioldest dream and last 
 Must melt before the clarion blast 
 
 That soimds the dirge of Home. 
 
KEMBLE. 
 
 317 
 
 Heroes and kings, obey the charm, 
 Withdraw the proud high-reaching 
 arm ; 
 There is an oath on high, 
 That ne'er on brow of mortal birtli 
 Shall blend again the crowns ot 
 earth. 
 Nor in according cry 
 
 Her many voices mingling own 
 One tyrant lord, one idol throne: 
 But to His triumph soon 
 
 He shall descend who rules above, 
 
 And the pure language of his love 
 
 All tongues of men shall tune. 
 
 Nor let ambition heartless mourn; 
 When Babel's very ruins burn. 
 
 Her high desires may breathe ; — 
 O'ercome thyself, and thou may st 
 
 share 
 With Christ his Father's throne, and 
 wear 
 The world's imperial wreath. 
 
 Frances Anne Kemble. 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 What shall I do with all the days 
 and hours 
 That nuist be counted ere I see thy 
 face '? , 1 ^ 
 
 How shall I charm the interval that 
 lowers 
 Between this time and that sweet 
 time of grace '? 
 
 Shall I in slumber steep each weary 
 
 SGllSC — 
 
 Weary with longing ? Shall I flee 
 away 
 Into past days, and with some fond 
 pretence 
 Cheat mvself to forget the present 
 day ? 
 
 Shall love for thee lay on my soul the 
 
 sin 
 
 Of casting from me God's great gift 
 
 of time •? [within 
 
 Shall I, these mists of memory locked 
 
 Leave and forget life's purposes 
 
 sublime ? 
 
 Oh, how. or by what means, may I 
 contrive 
 To bring the hour that brings thee 
 back more near '? 
 How may I teach my drooping hopes 
 
 to live , ^, 
 
 Until that blessed time, and thou 
 art here ? 
 
 I'll tell tliee; for thy sake I will lay 
 hold ^ ^ 
 
 Of all good aims, and consecrate to 
 thee. 
 In worthy deeds, each moment that 
 is told 
 While thou, beloved one! art tar 
 from me. 
 
 For thee I will arouse my thoughts 
 to try . , , 
 
 All heavenward flights, all high and 
 holy strains; 
 For thy dear sake I will walk pa- 
 tiently 
 Through these long hours, nor call 
 their minutes pains. 
 
 I will this dreary blank of absence 
 make 
 A noble task-time; and will therein 
 strive 
 To follow excellence, and to o ertake 
 More good than I have won since 
 yet I hve. 
 
 So may this doomed time build up in 
 me , 
 
 A thousand graces, which shall 
 thus be thine; 
 
 So may my love and longing hallowed 
 
 And thy dear thought an influence 
 divine. 
 
318 
 
 KEY. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 Better trust all and be deceived, 
 And weep that trust and that deceiv- 
 ing, 
 Than doubt one heart, that if believed 
 Had blessed one's life with true be- 
 lievins;. 
 
 Oh, in this mocking world too fast 
 The doubting fiend o'ertakes our 
 
 youth : 
 Better be cheated to the last 
 Than lose the blessed hope of 
 
 truth. 
 
 Francis Scott Key. 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 Oh! say, can you see by the dawn's 
 
 early liglit 
 What so proudly we hailed at the 
 
 twilight's last gleaming, — 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars 
 
 through the perilous fight, 
 O'er the ramparts we watched, were 
 
 so gallantly streaming! 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs 
 
 biu'sting in air 
 Gave proof through the night that 
 
 our flag was still there ; 
 Oh ! say, does that star-spangled ban- 
 ner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the 
 
 home of the brave ? 
 
 On that shore, dimly seen through 
 
 the mists of the deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in 
 
 dread silence reposes, 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er 
 
 the towering steep. 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, 
 
 now discloses ? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the 
 
 morning's first beam. 
 In full glory reflected, now shines on 
 
 the stream; 
 'Tis the star-spnngled banner; oh, 
 
 long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the 
 
 home of the brave ! 
 
 And where is that band who so 
 
 vaimtingly swore 
 That the havoc of war and the bat- 
 tle's confusion 
 A home and a country should leave 
 
 us no more "? 
 Their blood has washed out their 
 
 foul footsteps' pollution. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and 
 
 slave 
 From the terror of flight, or the 
 
 gloom of the grave ; 
 And the star-spangled banner in tri- 
 
 mnph doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the 
 
 home of the brave. 
 
 Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen 
 
 shall stand 
 Between their loved homes and the 
 
 war's desolation! 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the 
 
 heaven-rescued land 
 Praise the power that hath made and 
 
 preserved us a nation. 
 Then conquer we must, for our cause 
 
 it is just ; 
 And this be om- motto, — " In God is 
 
 our trust," — 
 And the star-spangled banner in tri- 
 umph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free, and the 
 
 home of the brave. 
 
KIMBALL. 
 
 319 
 
 Harriet McEwen Kimball. 
 
 GOOD NEWS. 
 
 A BEE flew in at my window, 
 And circled around my head ; 
 
 He came like a herald of summer- 
 time. . 
 And what do you think he saul .'' 
 
 "As sure as the roses shall blos- 
 som " — 
 These are the words he said, — 
 " As sure as the gardens shall laugh 
 in pride, 
 And the meadows blush clover-red ; 
 
 "As sure as the golden robin 
 Shall build her a swinging nest. 
 
 And the capture(t sunbeam lie last- 
 locked 
 In the marigold's burning breast; 
 
 " As sure as the water-lilies 
 Shall float like a fairy fleet; 
 
 As sure as the torrent shall leap the 
 rocks 
 With foamy, fantastic feet; 
 
 " As sure as the bobolink's carol 
 
 And the plaint of the whippoorwill 
 Shall gladden the morning, and sad- 
 den the night. 
 And the crickets pipe loud antl 
 shrill ; 
 
 "So sure to the heart of the maiden 
 Who hath loved and sorrowed long, 
 Glad tidings shall bring the summer 
 of joy 
 AYith bursting of blossom and 
 song!" 
 
 A seer as well as a herald ! 
 
 For while I sat weeping to-day, 
 The tenderest, cheeriest letter came 
 
 From Lionel far away. 
 
 Good news! O little bee-prophet. 
 Your words I will never forget! 
 
 It may be foolish,— that dear, old 
 sign,— 
 But Lionel's true to me yet! 
 
 TROUBLE TO LEND. 
 
 To-MORiiow has trouble to lend 
 
 To all who lack to-day; 
 Go, borrow it, — borrow, griefless 
 heart, 
 
 And thou with thy peace wilt pay! 
 
 To-morrow has trouble to lend,— 
 An endless, endless store ; 
 
 But I have as much as heart can 
 hold,— 
 Why should I borrow more ! 
 
 HELIOTROPE. 
 
 Sweetest, sweetest. Heliotrope! 
 In the sunset's dying splendor. 
 In the trance of twilight tender, 
 Vll my senses I surrender. 
 
 To the subtle spells that bind me: 
 The dim air sA\imineth in my sight 
 With visions vague of soft delight; 
 Shadowy hands with endless chain 
 Of purple-clustered bloom enwmd 
 
 me ; — 
 Garlands drenched in dreamy rain 
 Of perfume passionate as sorrow 
 And sad as Love's to-morrow! 
 Bewildering music fills mine ears.— 
 Faint laughter and commingling 
 tears. — 
 Flowing like delicious pain 
 Through my drowsy brain. 
 Bosomed in the blissful gloom.— 
 Meseems I sink on slumberous 
 slope 
 Buried deep in puii^le bloom, 
 f^^veetest. sweetest Heliotrope! 
 Undulates the earth beneath me; 
 Still the shadow-hands enwreatU 
 me. 
 And clouds of faces half detined. 
 Lovely and fantastical, 
 jSweet, — O sweet! — and strange 
 withal. 
 Sweeping like a desert wind 
 Across my vision leave me blind! 
 Subtler grows the spell and stronger; 
 
What enchantments weird possess 
 me, — 
 
 Now uplift me, now oppress me ? 
 Do I feast, or do I hunger ? 
 
 Is it bliss, or is it anguish ? 
 
 Is it Auster's treaclierous breatli 
 Kissing me witli honeyed deatli, 
 
 Wliile I sicken, droop, and languisli ? 
 
 Still I feel my blood's dull beat 
 In my head and liands and feet; 
 
 Struggling faintly with thy sweet- 
 ness. 
 
 Heliotrope! Heliotrope! 
 
 Give nie back my strength's com- 
 pleteness. 
 Must I pine and languisli ever ! 
 Wilt tliou loose my senses never! 
 Wilt thou bloom and bloom for ever, 
 
 Oil, Lethean Heliotrope '? 
 
 Ah, the night-wind, freshly blowing, 
 Sets the languid blood a-flowing ! 
 
 I revive! — 
 I escape thy spells alive ! 
 
 Flower ! I love and do not love thee ! 
 Hold my breath, but bend above tliee; 
 
 Crusli thy buds, yet bid them ope ; 
 
 Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope! 
 
 DA Y-DREAMING. 
 
 How better am I 
 Than a butterfly ? 
 Here, as tlie noiseless hours go by, 
 Hour by hour, 
 I cling to my fancy's lialf-blown 
 
 flower : 
 Over its sweetness I brood and brood, 
 And scarcely stir, tliougli sounds in- 
 trude 
 That would trouble and fret another 
 mood 
 Less divine 
 Than mine ! 
 
 Who cares for the bees ? 
 I will take my ease, 
 IJream and dream as long as I 
 
 please ; 
 Hour by hour. 
 With love-wings fanning my sweet, 
 
 sweet flower! 
 (iatlier your honey, and hoard your 
 
 gold, 
 Through spring and summer, and 
 
 liive througli cold ! 
 I will cling to my flower till it is 
 mould, 
 Breatlie one sigh 
 And die! 
 
 THE LAST APPEAL. 
 
 The room is sweiit and garnished for 
 thy sake; 
 The table spread witli Love's most 
 liberal cheer; 
 The fire is blazing brightly on the 
 liearth; 
 Faith lingers yet to give tliee wel- 
 come iiere. 
 When,^\ ilt thou come ? 
 
 Daily I weave tlie aiiy web of 
 hope; 
 Frail as the spider's, wiouglit witli 
 beads of dew, — 
 That, lilve Penelope's, each night un- 
 done, 
 Eacli morn in patience I begin 
 anew. 
 When wilt tliou come ? 
 
 Not yet! To-morrow Faith Mill take 
 her flight. 
 The fire die out, the banquet dis- 
 appear ; 
 Forever will these fingers drop the 
 web. 
 And only desolation "wait thee here. 
 Oh, come to-day! 
 
KINQSLEY 
 
 321 
 
 Charles Kingsley. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 My fairest child, I have no song to 
 give you, 
 No lark could pipe to skies so dull 
 and gray ; 
 Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can 
 leave you 
 For every day : — 
 
 Be good, my dear, and let who will, 
 be clever; 
 Uo noble things, not dream them, 
 all day long; 
 And so make life, death, and the vast 
 forever 
 One grand, sweet song. 
 
 2'HE THREE FISHERS. 
 
 TiiKEE fishers went sailing away to 
 the "West — 
 Away to the West as the sun went 
 down ; 
 Each thought on the woman who 
 loved hini the best. 
 And the children stood watching 
 them out of the town ; 
 For men must work, and women must 
 
 weep ; 
 And there's little to earn and many 
 to keep. 
 Though the harbor-bar be moan- 
 ing. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse 
 tower 
 And trimmed the lamps as the sun 
 went down ; 
 They looked at the squall, and they 
 looked at the shower. 
 And the night-rack came rolling 
 up, ragged and brown. 
 But men must work and women must 
 
 weep. 
 Though storms be sudden and waters 
 deep. 
 And the harbor-bar be moan- 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining 
 sands 
 In the morning gleam as the tide 
 went down. 
 And the women are weeping and 
 wringing their hands. 
 For those who will never come back 
 to the town ; 
 For men must work, and women must 
 
 weep — 
 And the sooner it's over, the sooner 
 to sleep — 
 And good-bye to the bar and its 
 moaning. 
 
 DOLCINO TO MARGARET. 
 
 The world goes up and the world 
 goes down. 
 And the sunshine follows the 
 rain ; 
 And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's 
 frown 
 Can never come over again. 
 
 Sweet wife; 
 No, never come over again. 
 
 For Avoman is warm, though man be 
 cold. 
 And the night will hallow the 
 day; 
 Till the heart which at eve was weary 
 and old 
 Can rise in the morning gay, 
 Sweet wife ; 
 To its work in the morning gay. 
 
 SANDS OF DEE. 
 
 " O Makv, go and call the cattle 
 home, 
 And call the cattle home 
 And call the cattle home. 
 Across the sands of Dee! " 
 The western wind was wild and dank 
 Avith foam 
 And all alone went she. 
 
322 
 
 KNOX. 
 
 The western tide crept up along the 
 
 Above the nets at sea ? 
 
 sand, 
 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so 
 
 And o'er and o'er the sand, 
 
 fair. 
 
 And round and round the sand, 
 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 As far as eye could see. 
 
 
 The rolling mist came down and hid 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling 
 
 the land 
 
 foam — 
 
 And never home came she. 
 
 The cruel, crawling foam. 
 
 
 The cruel, hungry foam — 
 
 " Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating 
 
 To her grave beside the sea ; 
 
 hair — 
 
 But still the boatmen hear her call 
 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 
 the cattle home 
 
 A drowned maiden's hair — 
 
 Across the sands of Dee. 
 
 William Knox. 
 
 OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD-: 
 
 Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal 
 be proud ? 
 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast- 
 flying cloud, 
 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of 
 the wave. 
 
 He passeth from life to his rest in the 
 grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow 
 
 shall fade, 
 Be scattered around, and together be 
 
 laid ; 
 As the young and the old, the low 
 
 and the high. 
 Shall crumble to dust and together 
 
 shall lie. 
 
 The infant, a mother attended and 
 
 loved, 
 The mother, that infant's affection 
 
 who proved, 
 The father, that mother and infant 
 
 who blest. 
 Each, all, are away to that dwelling 
 
 of rest. 
 
 The maid, on whose brow, on whose 
 cheek, in whose eye. 
 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her tri- 
 umphs are by ; 
 
 And alike from the minds of the liv- 
 ing erased 
 
 Are the memories of mortals who 
 loved her and praised. 
 
 The head of the king, that the sceptre 
 
 hath borne; 
 The brow of the priest, that the mitre 
 
 hath worn; 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of 
 
 the brave, — 
 Are hidden and lost in the depths of 
 
 the grave. 
 
 The peasant, whose lot was to sow 
 
 and to reap; 
 The herdsman, who climbed with his 
 
 goats up the steep ; 
 The beggar, who wandered in search 
 
 of his bread, — 
 Have faded away like the grass that 
 
 we tread. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower 
 or weed. 
 
 That A^ithers away to let others suc- 
 ceed ; 
 
 So the multitude comes, even those 
 we behold, 
 
 To repeat e\'ery tale that has often 
 been told. 
 
For we are the same that our fathers 
 
 have been ; 
 \Vc see the same sights that our 
 
 fathers have seen: 
 We drink tlie same stream, and we 
 
 feel the same sun. 
 And run the same course that our 
 
 fatliers have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinlcing our 
 fatliers did think; 
 
 From the death we are shrinking our 
 fathers did shrink; 
 
 To the life we are clinging our fa- 
 thers did cling, 
 
 But it speeds from us all like the bird 
 on the wing. 
 
 They loved, — but the story we can- 
 not unfold ; 
 
 They scorned, — but the heart of the 
 haughty is cold ; 
 
 They grieved, — but no wail from 
 their slumbers will come; 
 
 They joyed, — but the tongue of their 
 gladness is dumb. 
 
 They died, — ah! they died; — Ave, 
 things that are now, 
 
 That walk on the turf that lies over 
 their brow. 
 
 And make in their dwelling a tran- 
 sient abode. 
 
 Meet the things that they met on their 
 pilgrimage road. 
 
 Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure 
 
 and pain, 
 Are mingled together in sunshine and 
 
 rain : 
 And the smile and the tear, and the 
 
 song and the dirge, 
 Still follow each other like surge 
 
 upon surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the 
 
 draught of a breath 
 From the blossom of health to the 
 
 paleness of death. 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier 
 
 and the shroud; 
 Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal 
 
 be proud ? 
 
 Marie R. Lacoste. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 
 
 Into a ward of the whitewashed 
 walls, 
 AVhere the dead and dying lay, 
 Womided by bayonets, shells, and 
 balls, 
 Somebody's darling was borne one 
 day — 
 Somebody's darling, so young, and so 
 brave, 
 Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, 
 Soon to be hid by the dust of the 
 grave. 
 The lingering light of his boyhood's 
 grace. 
 
 Matted and damp are the cuils of 
 gold, [brow; 
 
 Kissing the snow of that fair young 
 Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 
 
 Somebody's darling is dying now. 
 
 Back from his beautiful, blue-veined 
 brow, 
 Brush all the wandering waves of 
 gold. 
 Cross his hands on his bosom now. 
 Somebody's darling is still and 
 cold. 
 
 Kiss him once for somebody's sake, 
 
 Murmur a prayer soft and low ; 
 One bright curl from its fair mates 
 take. 
 They were somebody's pride, you 
 know : 
 Somebody's liand has rested there. — 
 Was it a mother's soft and white ? 
 And have the lips of a sister fair 
 Been baptized in those waves of 
 light ? 
 
324 
 
 LAIGHTON. 
 
 God knows best — he was somebody's 
 
 love; 
 ISomebody's heart enshrined him 
 til ere ; 
 Somebody wafted his name above 
 Night and morn on the wings of 
 prayer. 
 Somebody wept when he marched 
 away 
 Looking so handsome, brave, and 
 grand ; 
 Somebody's kiss on his forehead 
 lay, 
 Somebody chmg to his parting 
 hand. 
 
 Somebody's waiting and watching for 
 him — 
 Yearning to hold him again to the 
 heart ; 
 And there he lies with his bine eyes 
 dim. 
 And the smiling, childlike lips 
 apart. 
 Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 
 Pausing to drop on his grave a 
 tear ; 
 Carve on the wooden slab at his 
 head, — 
 "Somebody's darling slumbers 
 here." 
 
 Albert Laighton. 
 
 UNDER THE LEAVES. 
 
 Oft have I walked these woodland 
 paths. 
 
 Without the blest foreknowing 
 That underneath the withered leaves 
 
 The fairest buds were growing. 
 
 To-day the south-wind sweeps away 
 The types of autiunn's splendor. 
 
 And shows the sweet arbutus flowers. 
 Spring's children, pure and tender. 
 
 O prophet-flowers! — with lips of 
 bloom. 
 
 Outvying in your beauty 
 The pearly tints of ocean shells, — 
 
 Ye teach me faith and duty ! 
 
 " Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to 
 
 say, 
 
 "With love's divine foreknowing, 
 
 'I'hat Avhere man sees but withered 
 
 leaves, 
 
 (Jod sees sweet flowers growing." 
 
 nr THE DEAD. 
 
 Savekt winter roses, stainless as the 
 
 snow. 
 As was thy life, O tender heart and 
 
 true ! 
 A cross of lilies that our tears bedew, 
 A garland of the fairest flowers that 
 
 grow. 
 And filled with fragrance as the 
 
 thought of thee. 
 We lay, with loving hand, upon thy 
 
 breast. 
 Wrapt in the calm of Death's great 
 
 mystery ; 
 Ours still to feel the pairi, the unlan- 
 
 guaged woe. 
 The bitter sense of loss, the vague 
 
 unrest. 
 And wear unseen the cypress-leaf 
 
 and rue. 
 Thinking, the while, of lovelier flow- 
 ers that blow 
 In everlasting gardens of the blest. 
 That wither not like these, and never 
 
 shed 
 Their rare and heavenly odors for the 
 
 dead. 
 
LAMB. 
 
 825 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 I HAVE had playmates, I have liad 
 companions, 
 
 In my days of childhood, in my joy- 
 ful school-days; 
 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar 
 faces. 
 
 1 have been laughing, I have been 
 
 carousing. 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with ray 
 
 bosom cronies; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar 
 
 faces. 
 
 I loved a love once, fairest among 
 
 women ; 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must 
 
 not see her; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar 
 
 faces. 
 
 1 have a friend, a kinder friend has 
 no man ; 
 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend ab- 
 ruptly — 
 
 Left him to muse on the old familiar 
 faces. 
 
 Ghost-like I paced roimd the haunts 
 
 of my childhood. 
 Earth seemed a desert I was bound 
 
 to traverse. 
 Seeking to find the old familiar 
 
 faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than 
 a brother. 
 
 Why wert not thou born in my fa- 
 ther's dwelling? 
 
 So might we talk of the old familiar 
 faces — 
 
 How some they have died, and some 
 
 they have left me. 
 And some are taken from me; all are 
 
 departed. 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar 
 
 faces ! 
 
 HESTER. 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die. 
 Their place ye may not well supply, 
 Though ye among a thousand try, 
 AVitli vain endeavor. 
 
 A month or more has she been dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To tliink upon the wormy bed 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 Of pride and joy no common rate, 
 That flushed her spirit: 
 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call ; — if 't was not pride. 
 It was a joy to that allied. 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule. 
 Which doth the liuman feelings cool ; 
 But slie was trained in nature's 
 school, 
 Nature had blessed her. 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot 
 blind, — 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore ! 
 Shall we not meet as heretofore 
 Some summer morning; 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a I)liss upon the day, — 
 A bliss that would not go away, — 
 A sweet forewarning ? 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 The frugal snail, with forecast of re- 
 pose, 
 
 Carries his house with him where'er 
 he goes ; 
 
326 
 
 LANDON. 
 
 Peeps out, — and if there comes a 
 shower of rain, 
 
 Retreats to his small domicile 
 again. 
 
 Touch but a tip of liim, a horn, — 'tis 
 well, — 
 
 He curls uji in his sanctuary shell. 
 
 He's his own landlord, his own ten- 
 ant; stay 
 
 Long as he will, he dreads no quar- 
 ter-day. 
 
 Himself he boards and lodges; both 
 invites 
 
 And feasts himself ; sleeps with him- 
 self o' nights. 
 
 He spares the upholsterer trouble to 
 jjrocure [ture, 
 
 Chattels; himself is his own furni- 
 
 And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he 
 roam, — 
 
 Knock when you will, — he's sure to 
 be at home. 
 
 L^TiTiA Elizabeth Landon. 
 
 SUCCESS ALONE SEEX. 
 
 Few know of life's beginnings — 
 
 men behold 
 The goal achieved ; — the warrior, 
 
 when his sword 
 Flashes red triumph in the noonday 
 
 sun ; 
 The poet, when his lyre hangs on the 
 
 palm ; 
 The statesman, when the crowd pro- 
 claim his voice. 
 And mould opinion on his gifted 
 
 tongue : 
 They count not life's first steps, and 
 
 never think 
 Upon the many miserable hours 
 When hope deferred was sickness to 
 
 the heart. 
 They reckon not the battle and the 
 
 march. 
 The long privations of a wasted 
 
 youth ; 
 They never see the banner till un- 
 furled. 
 What are to them the solitary nights 
 Passed pale and anxiously by the 
 
 sickly lamp, 
 Till the young poet wins the world at 
 
 last 
 To listen to the music long his own ? 
 The crowd attend the statesman's 
 
 fiei'y mind 
 That makes their destiny ; but they 
 
 do not trace 
 Its struggle, or its long expectancy. 
 
 Hard are life's early steps; and, but 
 
 that youth 
 Is buoyant, confident, and strong in 
 
 hope. 
 Men would behold its threshold, and 
 
 despair. 
 
 THE LITTLE SHROUD. 
 
 She had lost many children — now 
 The last of them was gone : 
 
 And day and night she sat and wept 
 Beside the funeral stone. 
 
 One midnight, while her constant 
 tears 
 
 Were falling with the dew. 
 She heard a v-oice, and lo ! her child 
 
 Stood by her, weeping too ! 
 
 His shroud was damp, his face was 
 white; 
 He said — "I cannot sleep. 
 Your tears have made my shroud so 
 wet ; 
 O mother, do not weep! "' 
 
 Oh, love is strong! — the mother's 
 heart 
 Was filled wilh tender fears; 
 Oh, love is strong! — and for her 
 child 
 Her grief restrained its tears. 
 
LANDOR. 
 
 3-27 
 
 One eve a light shone round her bed, 
 And there she saw hhn stand — 
 
 Her infant in liis little shroud, 
 A taper in his hand. 
 
 •• Lol mother, see my shroud is dry. 
 And I can sleep once more!'' 
 
 And beautiful the parting smile 
 The little infant wore. 
 
 The mother went her household 
 ways — 
 
 Again she knelt in prayer, 
 And" only asked of heaven its aid 
 
 Her heavy lot to bear. 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Ah, deeply the minstrel has felt all 
 he sings. 
 Every passion he paints his own 
 bosom has known ; 
 No note of wild music is swept from 
 the strings. 
 But first his own feelings have 
 echoed the tone. 
 
 Then say not his love is a fugitive 
 fire. 
 That the heart can be ice Avhile the 
 lip is of flame : 
 Oh, say not that truth does not dwell 
 with the lyre : 
 For the pulse of the heart and the 
 harp are the same. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT AT POMPEII. 
 
 I SEE the ancient master pale and 
 
 worn, 
 Though on him shines the lovely 
 
 southern heaven, 
 And Naples greets him with festivity. 
 
 The dying by the dead : for his great 
 sake 
 
 They have laid bare the city of the 
 lost: 
 
 His own creations fill the silent 
 streets ; 
 
 The Roman pavement rings with 
 golden spurs. 
 
 The Highland plaid shades dark Ital- 
 ian eyes, 
 
 x\nd the young king himself is 
 Ivanhoe. 
 
 But there the old man sits, — majes- 
 tic, wan. 
 
 Himself a mighty vision of the past; 
 
 The glorious mind has bowed beneath 
 its toil; 
 
 He does not hear his name on foreign 
 lips 
 
 That thank him for a thousand happy 
 hours : 
 
 He does not see the glittering groups 
 that press 
 
 In wonder and in homage to his side ; 
 
 Death is beside his triumph. 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 RUBIES. 
 
 Often I have heard it said 
 That her lips are ruby red. 
 Little heed I what they say, 
 I have seen as red as they. 
 Ere she smiled on other men, 
 Real rubies were they then. 
 
 Wlien she kissed me once in play. 
 Rubies were less bright than they, 
 
 And less bright were those which 
 
 shone 
 In the palace of the sun. 
 Will they be as bright again? 
 Not if kissed by other men. 
 
 IN XO HASTE. 
 
 Nay, thank me not again for those 
 Camellias, that untimely rose; 
 But if, whence you might please the 
 more, 
 
828 
 
 LANIER. 
 
 And win the few unwon before, 
 I sought the flowers you love to wear, 
 O'er joyed to see them in your liair, 
 Upon my grave. I pray you set 
 One primrose or one violet. 
 . . . Stay ... 1 can wait a little yet. 
 
 ROSE AYLMER. 
 
 Air, what avails the sceptred race ? 
 
 Ah, what the form divine ? 
 What every virtue, every grace ? 
 
 Hose Ayluier, all were thine. 
 
 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful 
 eyes 
 
 May weep but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee. 
 
 DEATH OF THE DAY. 
 
 My pictures blacken in their frames 
 
 As night comes on, 
 And youthful maids and wrinkled 
 dames 
 
 Are now all one. 
 
 Death of the Day ! a sterner Death 
 
 Did worse before ; 
 The fairest form, the sweetest breath, 
 
 Away he bore. 
 
 / WILL NOT LOVE. 
 
 I WILL not love ! These sounds 
 have often 
 
 Burst from a troubled breast ; 
 Rarely from one no sighs could soften, 
 
 Rarely from one at rest. 
 
 A REQUEST. 
 
 The place where soon I think to lie, 
 In its old creviced nook hard by, 
 
 Rears many a weed : 
 If parties bring you there, will you 
 Drop slyly in a grain or two 
 
 Of wallflower seed ? 
 
 I shall not see it, and (too sure!) 
 I shall not ever hear that your 
 
 Light step was there ; 
 But the rich odor some fine day 
 Will, what I cannot do, repay 
 That little care. 
 
 Sidney Lanier. 
 
 EVENING SONG. 
 
 Look off, dear Love, across the sal- 
 low sands. 
 And mark yon meeting of the sun 
 and sea ; 
 How long they kiss in sight of all the 
 lands ! 
 Ah, longer, longer we. 
 
 Now in the sea's red vintage melts 
 the sun, 
 As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy 
 wine. 
 And Cleopatra Night drinks all. 'Tis 
 done ! 
 Love, lay thy hand in mine. 
 
 Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort 
 heaven's heart; 
 fHimmer, ye waves, round else un- 
 lighted sands; 
 O Night, divorce our sun and moon 
 apart, — 
 Never our lips, our hands. 
 
 FROM THE FLATS. 
 
 What heartache, — ne'er a hill! 
 Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill. 
 The drear sand-levels drain my spirit 
 
 low, 
 With one i^oor word they tell me all 
 
 they know; 
 
 S^ 
 
LARCOM. 
 
 329 
 
 Whereat their stupid tongues, to 
 
 tease my pain, 
 Do draw it o'er again and o'er again. 
 They liurt my heart with griefs I 
 
 cannot name: 
 Always the same, the same. 
 
 Nature hath no surprise. 
 
 No ambuscade of beauty, 'gainst 
 mine eyes 
 
 From brake, or lurking dell, or deep 
 defile ; 
 
 No humors, frolic forms, — this mile, 
 that mile ; 
 
 No rich reserves or happy-valley 
 hopes 
 
 Beyond the bends of roads, the dis- 
 tant slopes. 
 
 Her fancy fails, her wild is all run 
 tame: 
 Ever the same, the same. 
 
 Oh ! might I through these tears 
 
 But glimpse some hill my Georgia 
 high uprears, 
 
 Where white the quartz, and pink 
 the pebbles shine, 
 
 The hickory heavenward strives, the 
 muscadine 
 
 Swings o'er the sloi^e; the oak's far- 
 falling shade 
 
 Darkens the dog- wood in the bottom 
 glade, 
 
 And down the hollow from a ferny 
 nook 
 Bright leaps a living brook! 
 
 BETRAYAL. 
 
 The sun has kissed the violet sea. 
 And turned the violet to a rose. 
 
 O Sea ! wouldst thou not better be 
 Mere violet still ? Who knows ? 
 
 who knows ? 
 Well hides the violet in the wood: 
 The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood. 
 And winter's ill is violet's good; 
 But the bold glory of the rose. 
 It quickly conies and quickly goes; 
 Red petals whirling in white snows, 
 Ah me ! 
 
 The sun has burnt the rose-red sea : 
 The rose is turned to ashes gray. 
 
 O Sea ! O Sea ! mightst thou but be 
 The violet thou hast been to-day I 
 The sun is brave, the sun is briglit. 
 The sun is lord of love and light; 
 But after him it cometh night. 
 O anguish of the lonesome dark ! 
 Once a girl's body, stiff and stark. 
 Was laid in a tomb without a marl^. 
 Ah me ! 
 
 Lucy Largom. 
 
 HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 
 
 Poor lone Hannah, 
 Sitting at the window, binding shoes, 
 
 Faded, wrinkled. 
 Sitting, stitching, in a nioiu'nful 
 muse. 
 Bright-eyed beauty once was she. 
 When the bloom was on the tree : 
 Spring and winter, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding 
 shoes. 
 
 Not a neighbor. 
 Passing nod or answer will refuse. 
 
 To her whisper, 
 " Is there from the fishers any 
 news ?" 
 Oh, her heart's adrift, with one 
 (Jn an endless voyage gone ! 
 Night and morning. 
 Hannah's at the window, binding 
 shoes. 
 
 Fair young Hannah, 
 Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos: 
 
 Hale and clever. 
 For a willing heart and hand he sues. 
 May-day skies are all aglow. 
 And the waves are laughing so! 
 
330 
 
 LARCOM. 
 
 For her wedding 
 Hannah leaves her window and her 
 shoes. 
 
 May is passing: 
 Mid tlie apple-boughs a pigeon coos, 
 
 Hannah shudders, 
 For the mild southwester miscliief 
 brews. 
 Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
 Outward bound, a schooner sped: 
 Silent, lonesome, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding 
 shoes. 
 
 'Tis Xovember, 
 Now no tear her wasted cheek be- 
 dews. 
 From Newfoundland 
 Not a sail returning will she lose. 
 Whispering hoarsely, " Fishermen, 
 Have you, have you heard of 
 Ben?" 
 Old with watching, 
 Hannah's at the windoAV, binding 
 shoes. 
 
 Twenty winters 
 Bleach and tear the ragged shore she 
 views 
 Twenty seasons, — 
 Never one has brought her any news. 
 Still her dim eyes silently 
 Chase the white sails o'er the sea: 
 Hopeless, faithful, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding 
 shoes. 
 
 [From Hints.] 
 THE CURTAIN OF THE DARK. 
 
 The cmtain of the dark 
 Is piei'ced by many a rent : 
 
 Out of the star-wells, spark on spark 
 Trickles through night's torn tent. 
 
 Grief is a tattered tent 
 
 Wherethrough God's light doth 
 shine. 
 Who glances up, at every rent 
 
 Shall catch a ray divine. 
 
 UNWEDDED. 
 
 Behold her there in the evening 
 sun. 
 That kindles the Indian summer 
 trees 
 To a separate burning bush, one by 
 one. 
 Wherein the Glory Divine she sees ! 
 
 Mate and nestlings she never had: 
 Kith and kindred have passed 
 away ; 
 Yet the sunset is ]iot more gently 
 glad, 
 That follows her shadow, and fain 
 would stay. 
 
 For out of her life goes a breath of 
 bliss. 
 And a sunlike charm from her 
 cheerful eye. 
 That the cloud and tlie loitering 
 l)reeze would miss; 
 A balm that refreshes the passer- 
 
 by. 
 
 "Did she choose it, tills single life?" 
 Gossip, she salth not, and who can 
 tell ? 
 But many a mother, and many a 
 wife, 
 Draws a lot more lonely, we all 
 know well. 
 
 Doubtless she had her romantic 
 dream. 
 Like other maidens, in May-time 
 sweet. 
 That flushes the air with a lingering 
 gleam. 
 And goldens the grass beneath her 
 feet: — 
 
 A dream unmoulded to visible form, 
 That keeps the world I'osy with 
 mists of youth. 
 And holds her in loyalty close and 
 warm. 
 To her fine ideal of manly truth. 
 
 " But is she happy, a woman alone ? " 
 Gossip, alone in this crowded 
 earth. 
 
LARCOM. 
 
 331 
 
 With a voice to quiet its hourly 
 moan, 
 And a smile to heighten its rarer 
 mirth I 
 
 There are ends more worthy than 
 happiness : 
 Who seeks it, is digging joy's 
 grave, we know. 
 The blessed are they who but live to 
 bless; 
 She found out that mystery, long 
 ago. 
 
 To her motherly, sheltering atmos- 
 l^here, 
 The children hasten from icy 
 homes : 
 The outcast is welcome to share her 
 cheer; 
 And the saint with a fervent beni- 
 son comes. 
 
 For the heart of woman is large as 
 man's; 
 God gave her his orphaned world 
 to hold, 
 And whispered through her His 
 deeper plans 
 To save it alive from the outer 
 cold. 
 
 And here is a woman who under- 
 stood 
 Herself, her work, and God's will 
 with her. 
 To gather and scatter His sheaves of 
 good. 
 And was meekly thankful, though 
 men demur. 
 
 Would she have walked more nobly, 
 think. 
 With a man beside her, to point 
 the way, 
 Hand joining liand in the marriage- 
 link ? 
 Possibly, Yes; it is likelier, Nay. 
 
 For all men have not wisdom and 
 might: 
 Love's eyes are tender, and blur 
 the map; 
 
 And a wife will follow by faith, not 
 sight, 
 In the chosen footprint, at any 
 hap. 
 
 In the comfort of home who is glad- 
 der than she ? 
 Yet, stirred by no murnuu- of 
 " might have been," 
 Her heart as a carolling bird soars 
 free, 
 With tlie song of each nest she has 
 glanced within. 
 
 Having the whole, she covets no 
 part : 
 Hers is the bliss of all blessed 
 things. 
 The tears that unto her eyelids 
 start, 
 Are those which a generous pity 
 brings ; 
 
 Or the sympathy of heroic faith 
 AVith a holy purpose, achieved or 
 lost. 
 To stifle the truth is to stop her 
 breath. 
 For she rates a lie at its deadly 
 cost. 
 
 Her friends are good women and 
 faithful men, 
 AVho seek for the true, and uphold 
 the right ; 
 And who shall proclaim her the 
 weaker, when 
 Her very presence puts sin to flight? 
 
 "And dreads she never the coming 
 years '? " 
 Gossip, what are the yeai's to 
 her ? 
 All winds are fair, and the harbor 
 nears. 
 And every breeze a delight will 
 stir. 
 
 Transfigured under the sunset trees. 
 That wreathe her Avith shadowy 
 gold anil red. 
 She looks away to the purple seas. 
 Whereon her shallop will soon be 
 sped. 
 
 332 
 
 LARCOM: 
 
 She reads the hereafter by the here: 
 A beautiful Now, and a better To 
 Be: 
 In Hfe is all sweetness, in death no 
 fear, — 
 You waste your pity on such as 
 she. 
 
 HAND IX HAND WITH ANGELS. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels, 
 
 Through the world we go ; 
 Brighter eyes are on us 
 
 Than we blind ones know ; 
 Tenderer voices cheer us 
 
 Than we deaf will own ; 
 Never, walking heavenward. 
 
 Can we walk alone. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels, 
 
 In the busy street, 
 By the winter hearth-fires, — 
 
 Everywhere, — we meet. 
 Though unfledged and songless. 
 
 Birds of Paradise; 
 Heaven looks at us daily 
 
 Out of human eyes. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels ; 
 
 Oft in menial guise; 
 By the same strait pathway 
 
 Prince and beggar rise. 
 If we drop the fingers, 
 
 Toil-imbrowned and worn. 
 Then one link with heaven 
 
 From our life is torn. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels: 
 
 Some are fallen, — alas! 
 Soiled wings trail pollution 
 
 Over all "they pass. 
 Lift them into sunshine! 
 
 Bid them seek the sky ! 
 Weaker is your soaring. 
 
 When they cease to fly. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels; 
 
 Some are out of sight, 
 Leading us, imknowing. 
 
 Into paths of light. 
 Some dear hands are loosened 
 
 From our earthly clasp, 
 Soul in soul to hold us 
 
 With a firmer grasp. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels, — 
 
 'Tis a twisted chain. 
 Winding heavenward, earthward, 
 
 Linking joy and pain. 
 There's a mournful jarring, 
 
 'J'here's a clank of doubt, 
 If a heart grows heavy. 
 
 Or a hand's left out. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels 
 
 AValking every day ; — 
 How the chain may lengthen. 
 
 None of us can say. 
 But we know it reaches 
 
 From earth's lowliest one, 
 To the shining seraph. 
 
 Throned beyond the sun. 
 
 Hand in hand with angels! 
 
 Blessed so to be! 
 Helped are all the helpers; 
 
 Giving light, they see. 
 He who aids another 
 
 Strengthens more than one ; 
 Sinking earth he grapples 
 
 To tiie Great White Throne. 
 
 A SrniP OF BLUE. 
 
 I DO not own an inch of land. 
 
 But all 1 see is mine. — 
 The orchard and the mowing-fields, 
 
 The lawns and gardens fine. 
 The winds my tax-collectors are. 
 
 They bring me tithes divine, — 
 Wild scents and subtle essences, 
 
 A tribute rare and free: 
 And more magnificent than all, 
 
 My window keeps for me 
 A glimpse of blue inunensity, — 
 
 A little strip of sea. 
 
 Richer am I than he who owns 
 
 Great fleets and argosies ; 
 I have a share in every ship 
 
 Won by the inland breeze 
 To loiter on yon airy road 
 
 Above the apple-trees. 
 I freight them with my untold 
 dreams. 
 
 !»: 
 
LARCOM. 
 
 333 
 
 Each bears my own picked crew ; 
 And nobler cargoes wait for thon 
 
 Tliau ever India knew, — 
 My ships lliat sail into the East 
 
 Across that outlet blue. 
 
 Sometimes they seem like living 
 shapes, — 
 
 The people of the sky, — 
 Guests in white raiment coming 
 down 
 
 From heaven, which is close by: 
 I call them by familiar names, 
 
 As one by one draws nigh, 
 So white, so light, so spirit-like, 
 
 From violet mists they bloom ! 
 The aching wastes of the unknown 
 
 Are half reclaimed from gloom. 
 Since on life's hospitable sea 
 
 All souls find sailing-room. 
 
 The ocean grows a weariness 
 
 With nothing else in sight ; 
 Its east and west, its north and 
 south. 
 
 Spread out from morn to night: 
 We miss the warm, caressing shore, 
 
 Its brooding shade and light. 
 A part is greater than the whole ; 
 
 By hints are mysteries told ; 
 The fringes of eternity. — 
 
 God's sweeping garment-fold. 
 In that bright shred of glimmering 
 sea, 
 
 I reach out for, and hold. 
 
 The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 
 
 Float in upon the mist; 
 The waves are broken precious 
 stones, — 
 
 Sapphire and amethyst. 
 Washed from celestial basement walls 
 
 By suns unsetting kissed. 
 
 Out through the utmost gates of 
 space. 
 
 Past where the gay stars drift. 
 To the widening Infinite, my soul 
 
 Glides on, a vessel swift; 
 Yet loses not her anchorage 
 
 In yonder azure rift. 
 
 Here sit I, as a little child: 
 
 The threshold of God's door 
 Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; 
 
 Now the vast temple floor, 
 The blinding glory of the dome 
 
 I bow myliead before. 
 The universe, O God, is home. 
 
 In height or depth, to me; 
 Yet here upon thy footstool green 
 
 Content am I to be ; 
 Glad, when is opened to my need 
 
 Some sea-like glimpse of thee. 
 
 [From Hintg.'] 
 HEAVES \EAJ! THE VinTUOCS. 
 
 They whose hearts are whole and 
 strong. 
 
 Loving holiness, 
 Living clean from soil of wrong. 
 
 Wearing truth's white dress, — 
 They unto no far-off height 
 
 Wearily need climb; 
 Heaven to them is close in sight 
 
 From these shores of time. 
 
 Only the anointed eye 
 
 Sees in common things, — 
 Gleams dropped daily from the sky; 
 
 Heavenly blossomings. 
 To the hearts where light has birth 
 
 Nothing can be drear; 
 Budding through the bloom of earth, 
 
 Heaven is always near. 
 
384 
 
 LATH It OP. 
 
 George Parsons Lathrop. 
 
 TO MV SOX. 
 
 Do you remember, my sweet, absent 
 
 son, 
 How in the soft June days forever 
 
 done 
 You loved the heavens so warm and 
 
 clear and high ; 
 And when I lifted you, soft came 
 
 your cry — 
 "Put me 'way up — 'way up in the 
 
 blue sky '? ' ' 
 
 I laughed and said I could not ; set 
 
 you down, 
 Your gray eyes Avonder-filled beneath 
 
 that crown 
 Of bright hair gladdening me as you 
 
 raced by. 
 Another P'ather now, more strong 
 
 than I, 
 Uas borne you voiceless to your dear 
 
 blue sky. 
 
 NEW WORLDS. 
 
 With my beloved I lingered late one 
 night. 
 At last the hour when I nuist leave 
 
 her came : 
 But, as I turned, a fear I could not 
 name 
 Possessed me that the long sweet 
 
 evening might 
 Prelude some sudden storm, whereby 
 delight 
 8hould perisli. Wliat if Death, ere 
 
 dawn, should claim 
 One of us ? What, though living, 
 not the same 
 Each sliould appear to each in morn- 
 ing light ? 
 
 Changed did I find her, truly, the 
 
 next day: 
 Ne'er could I see her as of old 
 
 again. 
 That strange mood seemed to draw a 
 
 cloud away. 
 
 And let her Ijeauty pour through 
 
 every vein 
 Sunlight and life, part of me. Thus 
 
 the lover 
 With each new morn a new world 
 
 may discover. 
 
 THE LILY-POND. 
 
 Some fairy spirit with his wand, 
 I think, has hovered o'er the dell, 
 
 And spread this film upon the pond. 
 And touclied it with tliis drowsy 
 spell, 
 
 For here the musing soul is merged 
 
 In moods no other scene can bring, 
 And sweeter seems the air when 
 scourged 
 With wandering wild-bees' mur- 
 muring. 
 
 One ripple streaks the little lake. 
 Sharp purple-blue; the birches, 
 thin 
 And silvery, crowd the edge, yet 
 break 
 To let a straying sunbeam in. 
 
 How came we through the yielding 
 wood. 
 That day, to this sweet-rustling 
 shore ? 
 Oh, there together while we stood, 
 A butterfly was wafted o'er. 
 
 In sleepy light; and even now 
 His glimmering beauty doth return 
 
 Upon me when the soft winds blow. 
 And lilies toward the sunlight 
 yearn. 
 
 The yielding wood ? And yet 'twas 
 loth 
 
 To yield unto our happy march; 
 Doubtful it seemed, at times, if both 
 
 Could pass its green, elastic arch. 
 
LATHROP. 
 
 585 
 
 Yet there, at last, upon the marge 
 We found ourselves, and there, be- 
 hold, 
 In hosts the lilies, white and large, 
 Lay close with hearts of downy 
 gold ! 
 
 Deep in the weedy waters spread 
 
 The rootlets of the placid bloom : 
 So sprung my love's flower, that was 
 bred 
 In deep still waters of heart's- 
 gloom. 
 
 So sprung; and so that morn was 
 nursed 
 
 To live in light, and on the pool 
 Wherein its roots were deep immersed 
 
 Burst into beauty broad and cool. 
 
 Few words were said; a moment 
 passed ; 
 
 I know not how it came — that awe 
 And ardor of a glance that cast 
 
 Our love in universal law. 
 
 But all at once a bird sang loud. 
 From dead twigs of the gleamy 
 beech ; 
 His notes dropped dewy, as from a 
 cloud, 
 A blessing on our married speech. 
 
 Ah, Love ! how fresh and rare, even 
 now. 
 That moment and that mood re- 
 ttn-n 
 Upon me, when the soft winds l)low. 
 And lilies toward the sunlight 
 yearn ! 
 
 SAILOR'S SONG. 
 
 The 
 
 sea goes up, the sky comes 
 down. 
 Oh, can you spy the ancient town, — 
 The granite hills so hard and gray. 
 That rib the land behind the bay ? 
 O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 
 Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
 O ye ho! 
 
 Three years ? Is it so long that we 
 Have lived upon the lonely sea ? 
 Oh, often 1 thought we'd see the 
 
 town. 
 When the sea went up, and the sky 
 came down. 
 O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
 Fair winds, boys ; send her home ! 
 O ye ho ! 
 
 Even the winter winds would rouse 
 A memory of my father's house; 
 For round his windows and his door 
 They made the same deep, mouthless 
 roar. 
 O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 
 Fair winds, boys : send her home ! 
 O ye ho ! 
 
 And when the summer's breezes 
 
 beat, 
 Methought I saw the sunny street 
 Where stood my Kate. Beneath her 
 
 hand 
 She gazed far out, far out from land. 
 O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
 Fair winds, boys : send her home ! 
 O ye lio ! 
 
 Fartliest away, I oftenest dreamed 
 That I was with her. Then, it 
 
 seemed 
 A single stride the ocean wide 
 Had bridged and brought me to her 
 side. 
 O ye ho, boys ! Spread lier wings ! 
 Fair winds, boys: s(-nd her home! 
 Oyeho! 
 
 But though so near we're drawing, 
 
 now, 
 'T is farther off — I know not how. 
 We sail and sail : we see no home. 
 Would we into the port were come I 
 O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 
 Fair winds, boys : send her home I 
 Oyeho! 
 
 At night, the same stars o'er the 
 
 mast : 
 The mast sways round — however fast 
 
38<; 
 
 LAZARUS. 
 
 We fly — still sways and swings 
 
 around 
 One scanty circle's starry bound. 
 O ye ho, boys! .Spread her wings I 
 Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
 O ye ho ! 
 
 Ah. many a month those stars have 
 
 shone. 
 And many a golden morn has flown, 
 Since that so'solenui happy morn, 
 When, I away, my babe was born. 
 O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
 Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
 O ye ho! 
 
 And, though so near we're drawing 
 
 now, 
 'T is farther otf — I know not how — 
 I would not aught amiss had come 
 To babe or mother there, at home ! 
 O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
 Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
 O ye ho! 
 
 ■Tis but a seeming; swiftly rush 
 The seas, beneath. 1 hear the crush 
 Of foamy ridges 'gainst the prow. 
 Longing outspeeds the breeze, I know. 
 
 O ye ho, boys! Spread her wings! 
 
 Fair winds, boys: send her home! 
 O ye ho ! 
 
 Patience, my mates! Though not 
 
 this eve, 
 We cast our anchor, yet believe, 
 
 If but the wind holds, short the run : 
 We'll sail in with to-morrow's sun. 
 
 O ye ho, boys ! Spread her wings ! 
 
 Fair winds, boys : send her home ! 
 i) ye ho ! 
 
 A FACE IN THE STREET. 
 
 PooK, withered face, that yet was 
 once so fair. 
 Grown ashen-old in the wild fires 
 
 of lust — 
 Thy star-like beauty, dimmed with 
 
 earthly dust, 
 Yet breathing of a pm-er native air; 
 They who, whilom, cursed vultures, 
 sought a share 
 Of thy dead womanhood, their 
 
 greed unjust 
 Have satisfied, have stripped and 
 
 left thee bare. 
 Still, like a leaf warped by the au- 
 tumn gust. 
 And driving to the end, thou wrapp'st 
 in flame 
 And perfume all thy hollow-eyed 
 decay. 
 Feigning on those gray cheeks the 
 blush that Shame 
 Took with her when she fled long 
 since away. 
 Ah God! rain fire iipon this foul- 
 
 souled eity 
 That gives such death, and spares its 
 men, — for pity! 
 
 Emma Lazarus. 
 
 [From Scenes in the Wood. Siujyested by 
 Jiobert Schumann.'] 
 
 PLEASANT PROSPECT. 
 
 Hail, free, clear heavens! above our 
 heads again, 
 With white-winged clouds that melt 
 before the sun : 
 Hail, good green earth! with blos- 
 soms, grass and grain : 
 O'er the soft rye what silvery rip- 
 ples run ! 
 
 What tawny shado^\■s ! Slowly we 
 have won 
 
 This high hill's top: on the wood's 
 edge we stand. 
 
 While like a sea below us rolls the 
 land. 
 
 The meadows blush with clover, and 
 the air 
 Is honeyed with its keen but spicy 
 smell ; 
 
 In silence graze the kine, but every- 
 where 
 
LAZABUS. 
 
 887 
 
 I'ipe the glad birds that in the for- 
 est dwell ; 
 Where hearths are set curled 
 wreaths of vapor tell; 
 Life's grace and promise win the soul 
 
 again ; 
 Hope floods the heart like sunshine 
 after rain. 
 
 The wood is past, and tranquil mead- 
 ows wide, 
 
 Bathed in bright vapor, stretch on 
 every side. 
 
 [From Scenes in t/te Wood. Suggested by 
 Robert Schumann.] 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 White stars begin to prick the wan 
 blue sky. 
 The trees arise, thick, black and 
 tall: between 
 Their slim, dark boles, gray, film- 
 winged gnats that fly 
 Against the failing western red are 
 
 seen. 
 The footpaths dimib with moss 
 have lost their green. 
 Mysterious shadows settle every- 
 where, 
 A passionate murmur trembles in the 
 air. 
 
 Sweet scents wax richer, freshened 
 with cool dews, 
 The whole vast forest seems to 
 breathe, to sigh 
 With rustle, hmn and whisper that 
 confuse 
 The listening ear, blent with the 
 
 fitful cry 
 Of some belated bird. In the far 
 sky. 
 Throbbing with stars, there stirs a 
 
 weird unrest. 
 Strange joy, akin to pain, fulfils the 
 breast — 
 
 A longing born of fears and promises, 
 
 A Willi desire, a hope that heeds no 
 
 bound. 
 
 A ray of ]noonlightstruggling through 
 
 the trees 
 
 Startles us like a i)hantoni; on the 
 
 ground 
 Fall curious shades; white glory 
 spreads ai-oimd; 
 
 A MARCH VIOLET. 
 
 Black boughs against a pale clear 
 
 sky. 
 Slight mists of cloud-wreaths floating 
 
 by: 
 Soft sinilight, gray-blue smoky air, 
 Wet thawing snows on hillsides bare; 
 Loud streams, moist sodden earth; 
 
 below 
 Quick seedlings stir, rich juices flow 
 Through frozen veins of rigid wood, 
 And the whole forest bestirs in bud. 
 Xo longer stark the branches spread 
 An iron network overhead. 
 Albeit naked still of green; 
 Through this soft, lustrous vapor 
 
 seen 
 On budding boughs a warm flush 
 
 glows. 
 With tints of purple and pale rose. 
 Bi-eathing of spring, the delicate air 
 Lifts playfully the loosend hair 
 To kiss the cool brow. Let us rest 
 In this bright, sheltered nook, now 
 
 blest 
 AVith broad noon siuishine over all, 
 Though here June's leafiest shadows 
 
 fall. 
 Young grass sprouts here. Look up ! 
 
 the sky 
 Is veiled by woven greenery. 
 Fresh little folded leaves — the first. 
 And goldener than green, they burst 
 Their thick full biids and take the 
 
 breeze. 
 Here, when November stripped the 
 
 trees. 
 I came to wrestle with a grief: 
 Solace I sought not. nor relief. 
 I shed no tears, I craved no grace 
 I fain would see Giief face to face, 
 Fathom her awful eyes at length, 
 Measure my strength against her 
 
 strength, 
 I wondered why the Preacher saith. 
 "Like as the grass that witheretb.'" 
 
 LAZARUS. 
 
 The late, close blades still waved 
 
 around ; 
 Iclutolu'd a handful from the ground. 
 •' He mocks us cruelly," 1 said: 
 ■'The frail herb lives and she is 
 
 dead." 
 1 lay dumb, sightless, deaf as she; 
 The long slow hours passed over me, 
 1 saw Grief face to face ; I know 
 The very form and traits of AVoe. 
 1 drained the galled dregs of the 
 
 draught 
 SJieottereduie: I could have laughed 
 in irony of sheer despair, 
 Although I could not weep. The air 
 Thickened with twilight shadows 
 
 dim: 
 I T'ose and left. I knew each limb 
 Of these great trees, each gnarled, 
 
 rough root 
 Piercing the clay, each cone of fruit 
 They bear in autumn. 
 
 What blooms here. 
 Filling the honeyed atmosphere 
 With faint, delicious f ragrancies, 
 Fj'eighted with blessed memories ? 
 The earliest March violet, 
 Dear as the image of Eegret, 
 And beautiful as Hope. Again 
 Past visions thrill and haunt my 
 
 brain. 
 Through tears I see the nodding head, 
 The }>urple and the green dispread. 
 Here, where I nursed despair that 
 
 morn. 
 The promise of fresh joy is l)orn, 
 Arrayed in sober colors still. 
 But piercing the gray mould to fill 
 With vague sweet influence the air, 
 'I'o lift the heart's dead weight of 
 
 care. 
 Longings and golden dreams to bring 
 Witii joyous phantasies of spring. 
 
 REMEMBEIi. 
 
 Remember Him, the only One. 
 
 Now, ere the years flow by, — 
 Now, wliile the smile is on thy lip. 
 
 The light within thine eye. 
 Now, ere for thee the sun have lost 
 
 Its glory and its light, 
 And earth rejoice thee not with 
 flowers. 
 
 Nor with the stai-s the night. 
 Now, while thou Invest earth, be- 
 cause 
 
 She is so wondrous fair 
 With daisies and witli prinnoses, 
 
 And sunlit, waving air: 
 And not because her bosom liolds 
 
 Thy dearest and thy best. 
 And some day will thyself infold 
 
 In calm and peaceful rest. 
 Now, while thou lovest violets. 
 
 Because mid grass they wave, 
 And not because they bloom upon 
 
 Some early-shapen grave. 
 Now, while thon lovest trembling 
 stars. 
 
 But just because they shine. 
 And not because they' re nearer one 
 
 Who never can be thine. 
 Now, while thou lovest music's 
 strains, 
 
 Because they cheer thy heart. 
 And not because from acliing eyes 
 
 They make the tear-drops start. 
 Now, whilst thou lovest all on earth 
 
 And deemest all will last. 
 Before thy hope is vanished quite , 
 
 And every joy has past ; 
 Remember Him, the only One, 
 
 Before the days draw nigh 
 When thou shalt have no joy in 
 them. 
 
 And praying, yearn to die. 
 
LEL AND. — LEY DEN. 
 
 Charles Godfrey Leland. 
 
 MINE OWS. 
 
 And oh, the longing, bm-ning eyes! 
 
 And oh, the gleaming hair 
 Which waves around me, night and 
 day, 
 
 O'er chamber, hall, and stair! 
 
 And oh, the step, half-dreamt, half 
 heard ! 
 
 And oh, the laughter low ! 
 And memories of merriment 
 
 Which faded long ago ! 
 
 Oh, art thou Sylph, — or trvily Self, — 
 
 Or either at thy choice ? 
 Oh, speak in breeze or beating heart, 
 
 But let me hear thy voice! 
 
 '"Oh, some do call me Laughter, love; 
 
 And some do call me Sin:'' 
 " And they may call thee what they 
 will, 
 
 So I thy love may win." 
 
 " Anil some do call me Wantonness, 
 And some ilo call me Play : '' 
 
 " Oh, they might call thee what they 
 would 
 If thou wert mine alway!" 
 
 " And some do call me Sorrow, love, 
 And some do call me Tears, 
 
 And some there be who name me 
 Hope, 
 And some that name me Fears. 
 
 " And some do call me Gentle Heart, 
 And some Forget fulness : * ' 
 
 " And if thou com'stas one or all, 
 Thou comest but to bless! " 
 
 " And some do call me Life, sweet- 
 heart. 
 
 And some do call me Death ; 
 And he to whom the two are one 
 
 Has won my heart and faith." 
 
 She twined her white arms round his 
 neck : — 
 
 The tears fell down like rain. 
 " And if I live or if 1 die. 
 
 We'll never part again." 
 
 John Leyden. 
 
 ODE TO AN INDIAN COIN. 
 
 Slave of the dark and dirty mine! 
 
 What vanity has brouglit thee here? 
 How can 1 love to see thee shine 
 So bright, whom I have bought so 
 
 dear '? — 
 The tent-ropes Happing lone I hear, 
 For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 
 The jackal's shriek bursts on mine 
 ear 
 Whom mirth and music wont to 
 charm. 
 
 By Cherical's dark wandering streams. 
 Where cane-tufts shadow all the 
 wild. 
 
 Sweet visions haunt my waking 
 dreams 
 Of Teviot loved while still a child. 
 Of castled rocks stupendous piled 
 By Esk or Eden's classic wave, 
 Where loves of youth and friend- 
 ship smiled, 
 Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 
 Fade, day-dreams sweet, from mem- 
 ory fade ! — 
 The perished bliss of youth's first 
 prime. 
 That once so bright on fancy played, 
 Kevives no more in after time. 
 Far from my sacred natal clime, 
 
LODGE. 
 
 I haste to an untimely grave ; 
 
 The daring tlioughts that soared 
 sublime 
 Are sunk in ocean's southei'n wave, 
 
 Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
 Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire 
 drear. 
 A gentle vision comes by night 
 My lonely widowed heart to cheer; 
 Her eyes are dim witli many a tear, 
 That once were guiding stars to 
 mine: 
 Her fond heart throbs with many 
 a fear ! 
 I cannot bear to see thee shine. 
 
 For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
 I left a heart that loved me true ! 
 
 I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, 
 To roam in climes unkind and new. 
 The cold wind of the stranger blew 
 
 Chill on my withered heart: the grave 
 Dark and untimely met my view, — 
 
 And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 
 Ha! comest thou now so late to 
 mock 
 A wanderer's banished heart for- 
 lorn. 
 Now that his frame the lightning 
 shock 
 Of sun-rays tipt with death has 
 
 borne ? 
 From love, from friendship, coun- 
 try, torn. 
 To memory's fond regrets the prey. 
 
 Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn I 
 Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! 
 
 Thomas Lodge. 
 
 ROSALINE. 
 
 Like to the clear in highest sphere, 
 Wliere all imperial glory shines. 
 
 Of self-same color is her hair, 
 Whether unfolded or in twines : 
 
 Her eyes are sapphires set in snow, 
 Refining heaven by every winlc ; 
 
 The gods do fear when as they glow, 
 And I do tremble when I think. 
 
 Her 
 
 lilce the blushinc 
 
 cheeks are 
 cloud, 
 That beautifies Aurora's face; 
 Or nice the silver crimson sliroud, 
 That Phoebus' smiling looks doth 
 grace. 
 
 Her lips are like two budded roses, 
 Wlioni ranks of lilies neighbor 
 nigh; 
 
 Within which bounds she balm en- 
 closes, 
 Apt to entice a deity. 
 
 Her neck like to a stately tower, 
 Where love himself imprisoned lies, 
 
 To watch for glances, every hour. 
 From her divine and sacred eyes. 
 
 With orient pearl, with ruby red, 
 Witli marble white, with sappliire 
 blue. 
 
 Her body everywhere is fed. 
 Yet soil in touch and sweet in vie\\ . 
 
 Nature herself her shape admires; 
 
 The gods are wounded in her sight; 
 And Love forsakes his heavenly fires. 
 
 And at her eyes his brand doth 
 light. 
 
L GAN — L ONOFELL 0\V 
 
 341 
 
 John Logan. 
 
 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the 
 grove ! 
 
 Thou messenger of spring ! 
 Xow heaven repairs thy rural seat. 
 
 And woods thy welcome sing. 
 
 Soon as the daisy decks the green, 
 Thy certain voice we hear. 
 
 Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
 Or mark the rolling year '> 
 
 Delightful visitant ! with thee 
 I hail the time of flowers, 
 
 And hear the sound of music sweet 
 From birds among the bowers. 
 
 The schoolboy, wandering through 
 the wood 
 
 To pull the primrose gay, 
 Starts thy most ciu-ious voice to hear. 
 
 And imitates thy lay. 
 
 What time the pea puts on the bloom. 
 
 Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
 An annual guest in other lands, 
 
 Another spring to hail. 
 
 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green. 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy sonc. 
 
 No winter in thy year! 
 
 Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! 
 
 We'd make with joyful wing. 
 Our annual visit o'er the globe, 
 
 Attendants on the spring. 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 THE LADDElt OF ST. AUGUSTIKE. 
 
 Saint Aucustine ! well hast thou 
 said. 
 That of our vices we can frame 
 A ladder, if we will but tread 
 
 Beneath our feet each deed of 
 shame ! 
 
 All common things, each day's 
 events. 
 That with the hour begin and end. 
 Our pleasures and our discontents, 
 Are rounds by which we may as- 
 cend. 
 
 The low desire, the base design, 
 That makes another's virtues less: 
 
 The revel of the ruddy wine, 
 And all occasions of excess: 
 
 The longing for ignoble things: 
 The strife for triumph more than 
 truth ; 
 The hardening of the heart, that 
 brings 
 Irreverence for the dreams of vouth : 
 
 All thoughts of ill: all evil deeds. 
 That have their root in thoughts of 
 ill: 
 
 AVhatever hinders or impedes 
 The action of the nobler will; — 
 
 All these must first be trampled 
 down 
 
 Beneath our feet, if we would gain 
 In the bright fields of fair renown 
 
 The right of eminent domain. 
 
 We have not wings, we cannot soar : 
 But we have feet to scale and climb 
 
 By slow degrees, by more and more. 
 The cloudy summits of our time. 
 
 The mighty pyramids of stone 
 That wedge-like cleave the desert 
 airs. 
 
 When nearer seen, and better known. 
 Are but gigantic flights of stairs. 
 
 The distant mountains, that uprear 
 Their solid bastions to the skies. 
 
 Are crossed by pathways, that appear 
 As we to hisrher bn-els rise. 
 
 im. 
 
The heights by great men reached 
 and kept 
 Were not attained by sndden fliglit, 
 But tliey, while tlieir companions 
 slept, 
 Were toiling upward in the night. 
 
 Standing on what too long we bore 
 With shovdders bent and downcast 
 eyes. 
 
 We may discern — unsecMi before — 
 A laath to higher destinies. 
 
 Nor deem the irrevocable Past 
 As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 
 
 If, rising on its wrecks, at last, 
 To somethinsr nobler we attain. 
 
 WEARINESS. 
 
 O LITTLE feet ! that such long years 
 Must wander on through hopes and 
 fears 
 Must ache and bleed beneath your 
 load ; 
 I, nearer to the wayside inn 
 Where toil shall cease, and rest begin. 
 Am weary, thinking of your road. 
 
 O little hands ! that weak or strong. 
 Have still to serve or rule so long, 
 
 Have still so long to give or ask; 
 1, who so much witli book and pen 
 Have toiled among my fellow-men. 
 
 Am weary, thinking of your task. 
 
 O little hearts I that throb and beat 
 With sucli impatient, feverish heat, 
 
 Such limitless and strong desires ; 
 Mine that so long has glowed and 
 
 burned. 
 With passions into ashes turned 
 
 Now covers and conceals its fires, 
 
 O little souls ! as piu'c and white 
 And ciystalline as rays of light 
 
 Direct from heaven, their source 
 divine; 
 Refracted through the mist of years. 
 How red my setting sun appears, 
 
 How lurid looks this soul of mine! 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 Afteh so long an absence 
 ■ At last we meet again ; 
 Does the meeting give us pleasure, 
 Or does it give us pain? 
 
 The tree of life has been shaken, 
 And but few of us linger now, 
 
 Like the Prophet's two or three ber- 
 ries 
 In the top of the uppermost bough. 
 
 We cordially greet each other 
 
 In the old familiar tone : 
 And ^ve think, though we ilo not say 
 it, 
 
 How old and gray he is grown I 
 
 We speak of a Merry Christmas, 
 And many a happy New Year; 
 
 But each in his heart is flunking 
 Of those that are not here. 
 
 We speak of friends and their for- 
 tunes. 
 
 And of what they did and said, 
 Till the ilead alone seem living. 
 
 And the living alone seem dead. 
 
 And at last we hardly distinguish 
 Between the ghosts and the guests ; 
 
 And a mist and shadow of sadness 
 Steals over our merriest jests. 
 
 ST A Y, ST A Y AT HOME, MY HEART, 
 AND REST. 
 
 Stay, stay at home, my heart, and 
 
 rest ; 
 Home-keeping hearts are happiest. 
 For those that wander they know not 
 
 where 
 Are full of trouble and full of care ; 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 Weary and homesick and distressed, 
 They wander east, they wander west. 
 And are ballled and beaten and blown 
 
 about 
 By the winds of tlni wilderness of 
 
 doubt ; 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 i>^ 
 
 ■^^SSfe 
 
 MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. 
 
 Page 343. 
 
LOlsGFELLOW 
 
 y>A:i 
 
 Then stay at home, my heart, and 
 
 rest : 
 The bird is safest in its nest; 
 O'er all that flutter their wings and 
 
 %, 
 A hawk is hovering in the sky : 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 NATURE. 
 
 As a fond mother, when the day is 
 
 o'er, 
 Leads liy the hand her little child 
 
 to bed, 
 Half-willing, half-reluctant to be 
 
 led, 
 Anil leave his broken j)Iaythings on 
 
 the floor. 
 Still gazing at them through the open 
 
 door ; 
 Nor wholly reassured and com- 
 forted 
 By promises of others in their 
 
 stead, 
 Which, though more splendid, may 
 
 not please him more ; 
 So Nature deals with us, and takes 
 
 away 
 Our playthings one by one, and by 
 
 the hand 
 Leads us to rest so gently, that we 
 
 go 
 Scarce knowing if we wish to go or 
 
 stay. 
 Being too full of sleep to under- 
 stand 
 How far the unknown transcends 
 
 the what we know. 
 
 THFJ TIDES. 
 
 I SAW the long line of the vacant 
 
 shore, 
 The sea-weed and the shells upon 
 
 the sand, 
 And the brown rocks left bare on 
 
 every hand, 
 As if the ebbing tide would flow no 
 
 more. 
 
 Then heard I, more distinctly than 
 before. 
 
 The ocean breathe, and its great 
 breast expand ; 
 
 And hurrying came on the defence- 
 less land 
 
 The insurgent waters with tumul- 
 tuous roar. 
 All thought and feeling and desire, I 
 said, 
 
 Love, laughter, and the exultant 
 joy of song. 
 
 Have ebbed from me forever! Suii- 
 denly o'er me 
 They swept again from their deep 
 ocean-bed, 
 
 And in a tumult of delight, and 
 strong 
 
 As youth, and beautiful as youth, 
 ujibore me. 
 
 MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK, 
 MAIDEN. 
 
 Weatuercock on the village 
 
 spire. 
 With your golden feathers all on 
 
 fire, 
 Tell me, what can you see from your 
 
 perch 
 Above there over the tower of t\\c. 
 
 church ? 
 
 WEATHEnCOCK. 
 
 1 can see the roofs and the streets be- 
 
 low. 
 And the people moving to and fro, 
 And beyond, without "either roof or 
 
 street, 
 The great salt sea, and the fisher- 
 man's fleet. 
 
 I can see a ship come sailing in 
 Beyond the headlands and harbor of 
 
 Lynn, 
 And a young man standing on the 
 
 deck. 
 With a silken kerchief round his 
 
 neck. 
 
 Now lie is pressing it to his lips, 
 And now he is kissing his fingei-tips, 
 
344 
 
 LONOFELLOW. 
 
 And now he is lifting and waving his 
 
 hand, 
 And blowing the kisses toward the 
 
 land. 
 
 Ah ! that is the ship from over the sea. 
 That is bringing my lover back to m»_\ 
 Bringing my lover so fond and true, 
 Wlu) does not change with the wind 
 like you. 
 
 AVP:ATnERCOCK. 
 
 If I change with all the winds that 
 
 blow. 
 It is only because they made me so, 
 And people would think it wondrous 
 
 strange, 
 If f, a weathercock, should not 
 
 change. 
 
 O pretty maiden, so fine and fair. 
 
 With your dreamy eyes and your 
 golden hair, 
 
 ■WHien you and your lover meet to- 
 day 
 
 You will thank me for looking some 
 other way ! 
 
 THREE FRIENDS OF MINE. 
 
 The doors are all wide open; at the 
 gate 
 
 The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a 
 blaze. 
 
 And seem to warm the air; a 
 dreamy haze 
 
 Hangs o'er the Brighton meadows 
 like a fate; 
 And on their margin, with sea-tides 
 elate. 
 
 The flooded Charles, as in the hap- 
 pier days. 
 
 Writes the last letter of his name, 
 and stays 
 
 His restless steps, as if compelled 
 to wait. 
 1 also wait; but they will come no 
 more, 
 
 Those friends of mine, whose pres- 
 ence satisfied 
 
 The thirst and hunger of my heart. 
 
 Ah me I 
 They have forgotten the pathway to 
 
 my door! 
 Something is gone from nature 
 
 since they died. 
 And svnnmer is not sunnner, nor 
 
 can be. 
 
 THE TWO ANGELS. 
 
 Two angels, one of Life and one of 
 Death, 
 Passed o'er our village as the morn- 
 ing broke; 
 The daA\n was on their faces, and 
 beneath. 
 The sombre houses hearsed with 
 plumes of smoke. 
 
 Their attitude and aspect were the 
 same. 
 Alike their featui'es and their robes 
 of white. 
 But one was crowned with amaranth 
 as with flame. 
 And one with asphodels, like flakes 
 of light. 
 
 I saw them pause on their celestial 
 way: 
 Then said I, with deep fear and 
 doubt oppressed. 
 "Beat not so loud, my heart, lost 
 thou betray 
 The place where thy beloved are at 
 rest!" 
 
 And he who wore the crown of as- 
 phodels. 
 Descending, at my door began to 
 knock. 
 And my soul sank within me, as in 
 wells 
 The waters sink before an earth- 
 quake's shock. 
 
 I recognized the nameless agony. 
 The terror and the tremor and the 
 pain. 
 That oft before had filled or haunted 
 me. 
 And now retiu-ned with threefold 
 strength again. 
 
LONGFELLOW. 
 
 345 
 
 The door I opened to my heavenly 
 guest. 
 And listened, for I thought I heard 
 God's voice; 
 And, knowing whatsoe'er he sent 
 was best, 
 Dared neither to lament nor to re- 
 joice. 
 
 Then with a smile, that tilled the 
 house with light, 
 " My errand is not Death, but 
 Life," he said; 
 And ere he answered, passing out of 
 sight. 
 On his celestial embassy he sped. 
 
 'Twas at thy door, O friend, and not 
 at mine. 
 The angel with the amaranthine 
 wreath. 
 Pausing, descended, and with voice 
 divine, 
 Whispered a word that hail a sound 
 Mice death. 
 
 Then fell upon the house a sudden 
 gloom, 
 A shadow on those features fair 
 and thin ; 
 And softly from that hushed and 
 darkened room. 
 Two angels issued, where but one 
 went in. 
 
 All is of (4od! If He but wave his 
 hand. 
 The mists collect, the rain falls 
 thick and loud. 
 Till, with a smile of light on sea and 
 land, 
 Lo! He looks back from the de- 
 parting cloud. 
 
 Angels of Life and Death alike are 
 His; 
 Without His leave, they pass no 
 threshold o'er; 
 
 Who, then, would wish or dare, be- 
 lieving this. 
 Against His messengers to shut the 
 door ? 
 
 A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 GIFT of God ! O perfect day: 
 Whereon shall no man work, but 
 
 play 
 Whereon it is enough for me, 
 Not to be doing, but to be ! 
 
 Through every fibre of my brain. 
 Through every nerve, through every 
 vein, 
 
 1 feel the electric thrill, the touch 
 Of life, that seems almost too much. 
 
 I hear the wind among the trees 
 Playing celestial symplionies; 
 I see the branches downward bent. 
 Like keys of some great instrument. 
 
 And over me unrolls on high 
 The splendid scenery of the sky. 
 Where through a sapphire sea, the 
 
 sun 
 Sails like a golden galleon. 
 
 Towards yonder cloud-lands in the 
 
 west. 
 Towards yonder Islands of the Blest, 
 Whose steep sierra far uplifts 
 Its craggy summits white with drifts. 
 
 Blow, winds! and waft through all 
 the rooms 
 
 The snow-flakes of the cherry- 
 blooms ! 
 
 Blow, winds! and bend within my 
 reach 
 
 The fiery blossoms of the peach ! 
 
 O Life and Love ! O happy throng 
 Of thoughts, whose only speech is 
 
 song! 
 ( ) heart of man ! canst thou not be 
 Blithe as the air is, and as free ? 
 
34(3 
 
 L ONOFELL OW—LO VELA CE. 
 
 Samuel Longfellow. 
 
 FROM MIRE TO BLOSSOM. 
 NOVEMBEi;. 
 
 The dead leaves, their rich mosaics 
 Of olive and gold and brown, 
 
 Had laid on the rain-wet pavement, 
 Through all the embowered town. 
 
 They were washed by the autumn 
 
 tempest, 
 
 They were trod by hurrying feet. 
 
 And the maids came out with their 
 
 besoms 
 
 And swept them into the street, 
 
 To be crushed and lost forever, 
 'Neath the wheels in the black 
 nnre lost; 
 
 The .Summer's precious darlings. 
 She nurtured at such cost ! 
 
 O words that have fallen from me! 
 
 O golden thoughts and true ! 
 Must I see in the leaves, a symbol 
 
 Of the fate which avvaiteth you ? 
 
 Again has come the spring-time, 
 \Vjth the crocus's golden bloom, 
 
 With the smell of the fresh-turned 
 earth-mould. 
 And the violet's perfume. 
 
 O gardener I tell me the secret 
 Of thy flowers so rare and sweet I 
 
 " I have only enriched my garden 
 With the black mire from the 
 street!" 
 
 Richard Lovelace. 
 
 TO LUC AST A, ON GOING BEYOND 
 
 THE SEAS. 
 
 If to be absent Avere to be 
 Away from thee ; 
 Or that \\hen I am gone 
 You or I were alone ; 
 Then, my Lucasta, might I crave 
 Pity from blustering wind, or swal- 
 lowing wave. 
 
 Though seas and land betwixt us 
 "both. 
 Our faith and troth. 
 Like separated souls, 
 All time and space controls : 
 Above the highest sphere we meet 
 Unseen, unknown, and greet as an- 
 gels greet. 
 
 So then we do anticipate 
 Our after-fate. 
 And are alive in the skies, 
 If thus our lips and eyes 
 
 Can speak like spirits unconfined 
 In heaven, their earthly bodies left 
 behind. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE 
 WARS. 
 
 Teli. me not, sweet, I am inikind. 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, 
 
 To war and arms I fly. 
 
 True, a new mistress now I chase, 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 And with a stronger faith embrace 
 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is such 
 
 As you, too, shall adore, 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much, 
 
 Loved 1 not honor moi'e. 
 
LOVER. 
 
 ni 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 
 on; WATCH YOU WEI J. BY DAY- 
 LIGHT. 
 
 Oil ! watch you well by daylight, 
 
 By daylight may you fear, 
 But keep no watch in darkness — 
 
 The angels then are near; 
 For Heaven the sense bestoweth, 
 
 Our waking lite to keep, 
 But tender mercy showeth, 
 
 To guard us in our sleep. 
 Then watch you well by daylight. 
 
 By daylight may you fear, 
 But keep no watch in darkness — 
 
 The angels then are near. 
 
 Oh ! watch you well in pleasure — 
 
 For pleasure oft betrays. 
 But keep no watch in sorrow, 
 
 When joy withdraws its rays : 
 For in the hour of sorrow, 
 
 As in the darkness drear. 
 To Heaven entrust the morrow. 
 
 For the angels then are near. 
 O watch you well by daylight. 
 
 By daylight may you fear, 
 But keep no watch in darkness — 
 
 The angels then are near. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE AUTUMN 
 LEAF. 
 
 Down by the river's bank I strayed 
 
 Upon an autumn day ; 
 Beside the fading forest there, 
 
 I saw a child at play. 
 She played among the yellow leaves — 
 
 The leaves that once were green. 
 And flung upon the passing stream 
 
 What once had blooming been: 
 Oh ! deeply did it touch my lieart 
 
 To see that child at play; 
 It was the sweet imconscious sport 
 
 Of childhood with decay. 
 
 Fair child, if by this stream you 
 stray. 
 When after years go by. 
 The scene that makes thy childhood's 
 sport. 
 May wake thy age's sigh: 
 
 AVhen fast you see around you fall 
 
 iMie summer's leafy pride. 
 And mark the river hurrying on 
 
 Its ne'er retm-ning tide; 
 Then may you feel in pensive mood 
 
 That life's a summer di-eani; 
 And man, at last, forgotten falls — 
 
 A leaf ui)on the stream. 
 
 THE ANGErS WING. 
 
 When by the evening's quiet light 
 
 There sit two silent lovers. 
 They say, while in such tranquil 
 plight, 
 An angel round them hovers ; 
 And further still old legends tell, — 
 The first who breaks the silent spell, 
 To say a soft and pleasing thing. 
 Hath felt the passing angel's wing! 
 
 Thus, a musing minstrel strayed 
 
 By the sinnmer ocean. 
 Gazing on a lovely maid. 
 
 With a bard's devotion: — 
 Yet this love he never spoke, 
 Till now the silent spell he broke; — 
 The hidden lire to flame did spring, 
 Fanned by the passing angel's wing! 
 
 " I have loved thee well and long. 
 With love of heaven's own mak- 
 ing ! — 
 This is not a poet's song. 
 
 But a true heart's speaking, — 
 I will love thee, still, untired!" 
 He felt — he spoke — as one inspired, 
 The words did from Truth's foun- 
 tain spring. 
 Upwaken'd by the angel's wing. 
 
 Silence o'er the maiden fell. 
 Her beauty lovelier making: — 
 
 And by her blush, he knew full well 
 The dawn of love was breaking. 
 
 It came like siuishine o'er his heart! 
 
 He felt that they should never ])art. 
 
 She spoke — and oh! — the lovely 
 thing 
 
 Had felt the passing angel's wing. 
 
348 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO 
 
 SIGHS. 
 
 Oil ! yield not, thou sad one, to 
 sighs. 
 Xor murmur at Destiny' s will. 
 Behold, for each pleasure that flies, 
 
 Another replacing it still. 
 Time's wing, were it all of onefeather. 
 
 Far slower would be in its flight : 
 The storm gives a charm to fine 
 weather, 
 And day would seem dark without 
 night. 
 Then yield not, thou sad one, to 
 sighs. 
 
 When ^\•e look on some lake that 
 repeats 
 
 The loveliness bounding its shore, 
 A breeze o'er the soft surface fleets. 
 
 And the mirror-like beauty is o'er. 
 
 But the breeze, ere it ruflled the deep. 
 
 Pervading the odorous bowers. 
 Awaken' d the flowers from their 
 sleep. 
 And wafted their sweets to be ours. 
 Then yield not, thou sad one, to 
 sighs. 
 
 Oh. blame not the change nor the 
 
 flight 
 
 Of our joys as they're passing away, 
 
 'Tis the swiftness and change give 
 
 delight — [stay. 
 
 They would pall if permitted to 
 
 More gaily they glitter in flying. 
 
 They perish in lustre still bright, 
 Like the hues of the dolphin, in dy- 
 ing. 
 Or the humming-bird's wing in its 
 flight. 
 Then yield not, thou sad one, to 
 sighs. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 THE HERITAGE. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands. 
 And piles of brick, and stone, and 
 gold. 
 And he inherits soft white hands. 
 And tender flesh that fears the 
 
 cold, 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares; 
 The bank may break, the factory 
 burn. 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares. 
 And soft white hands could hardly 
 
 earn 
 A living that would serve his turn; 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits wants. 
 His stomach craves for dainty 
 fare ; 
 
 With sated heart, he hears the 
 pants 
 Of toiling hinds with brown arms 
 
 bare. 
 And wearies in his easy-chair ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son in- 
 herit ? 
 
 Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 
 In evei-y useful toil and art ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son in- 
 herit ? 
 Wishes o'ci'joyed with humble 
 thin2;s, 
 A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit. 
 Content that from employment 
 springs. 
 
M 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 349 
 
 A heart that in his labor sings ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A liing miglat wisli to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son in- 
 herit •? 
 A patience learned of being poor, 
 
 Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
 A fellow-feeling that is sure 
 To make the outcast bless his door; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 O rich man's son! there is a toil 
 That with all others level stands; 
 
 Large charity doth never soil, 
 
 But only whiten, soft white liands, 
 This is the best crop from thy 
 lands ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
 O poor man's son! scorn not thy 
 state ; 
 There is worse weariness than 
 thine, 
 In merely being ricli and great; 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine. 
 And makes rest fragrant and be- 
 nign; 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
 Are equal in the earth at last; 
 
 Both, children of the same dear God, 
 Prove title to your heirship vast 
 By records of a well-filled past; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 Well worth a life to hold in fee. 
 
 [From the Visio7i of Sir Laun/al.] 
 THE GENEROSITY OF NATURE. 
 
 Eaktii gets its price for what earth 
 gives us ; 
 Thebeggar is taxed for a corner to 
 die in, 
 The priest hath his fee who comes 
 and slirives us, 
 We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
 
 At the devil's booth are all things 
 
 sold, 
 Each omice of dross costs its ounce of 
 gold; 
 For a cap and bells om* lives we 
 pay, 
 Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's 
 tasking: 
 'Tis heaven alone that is given 
 away, 
 'Tis only God may be had for the 
 
 asking. 
 No price is set on the lavish summer; 
 June may be had by the poorest 
 
 comer. 
 And what is so rare as a day in 
 June '? 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be 
 in tune. 
 And over it softly her warm ear 
 lays: 
 Whether we look, or whether we lis- 
 ten. 
 We hear life murmur or see it glisten; 
 Eveiy clod feels a stir of might. 
 An instinct within it that reaches 
 and towers. 
 And, groping blindly above it for 
 light. 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flow- 
 ers: 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 Thrilling back over hills and val- 
 leys; 
 The cowslij) startles in meadows 
 
 green. 
 The buttercup catches the sun in 
 its chalice. 
 And there's never a leaf nor a blade 
 too mean 
 To be some happy creature's j)al- 
 ace; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the 
 sun, 
 Atilt like a blossom among the 
 leaves. 
 And lets liis illumined being o'errun 
 With the deluge of summer it re- 
 ceives; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her 
 
 wings, 
 And the lieart in her dumb breast 
 flutters and sings ; 
 
He sings to llie wide world, and she 
 
 to her nest, — 
 In tlie nice ear of Nature which song 
 
 is tlie best ? 
 
 Now is tlie high-tide of the year. 
 And whatever of life hath ebbed 
 
 away 
 ronies flooding back with a ripply 
 
 cheer. 
 Into every bare inlet and creek and 
 
 bay; 
 Now the heart is so full that a drop 
 
 overfills it, 
 We are happy now because God wills 
 
 it; 
 No matter how bari'en the past may 
 
 have been, 
 'Tis enough for us now that the 
 
 leaves are green ; 
 We sit in the warm shade and feel 
 
 right well 
 How the sap creeps up and the blos- 
 soms swell; 
 We may shut our eyes, but we cannot 
 
 help knowing [ing. 
 
 That skies are clear and grass is grow- 
 The breeze comes whispering in our 
 
 ear, 
 That dandelions are blossoming near, 
 'I'liat maize has sprouted, that 
 
 streams are flowing, 
 That the river is bluer than the sky. 
 That the robin is plastering his house 
 
 hard by ; 
 And if the breeze kept the good news 
 
 back. 
 For other couriers we should not lack ; 
 We could guess it all by yon heifer s 
 
 lowing, — 
 And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer. 
 Warmed with the new wine of the 
 
 year. 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 
 
 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not 
 
 how; 
 Everything is happy now. 
 
 Everything is upward striving; 
 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be 
 
 true 
 As foi' grass to be green or skies to be 
 blue, — 
 'Tis the natural way of living: 
 
 Who knows whither the clouds have 
 fled ? 
 In the unscarred lieaven they leave 
 no wake ; 
 And the eyes forget the tears they 
 have shed, 
 The heart forgets its sorrow and 
 ache. 
 
 AFTEn THE BUIUAL. 
 
 YF:f^, faith is a goodly anchor; 
 AVhen skies are sweet as a psalm. 
 At the bows it lolls so stalwart. 
 In bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 
 
 And when over breakers to leeward 
 The tattered surges are hurled. 
 It may keep our head to the tempest. 
 With its grip on the base of the 
 MO rid. 
 
 But, aftei' the shipMreck. tell me 
 AVhat help in its iron thews. 
 Still true to the broken hawser. 
 Deep down among sea-weed and 
 ooze? 
 
 In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, 
 When the helpless feet stretch out 
 And find in the deeps of darkness 
 No footing so solid as doubt. 
 
 Then better one spar of memory, 
 One broken plank of the i)ast. 
 That our human heart may cling to. 
 Though hopeless of shore at last! 
 
 To the spirit its splendid conjectures. 
 To the flesh its sweet despair, 
 Its tears o'er the thin-worn locket 
 With its anguish of deathless hair! 
 
 Immortal ? I feel it and know it, 
 Who doubts it of such as she ? 
 But tluit is the pang's verj' secret; 
 Immortal a^ay from me! 
 
 There's a narrow I'idge in the grave- 
 yard 
 
 Would scarce stay a child in his 
 race, 
 
 But to me and my thought, it is wider 
 
 Than the star-sown vague of space. 
 
AUF WIEDER5EHEN. (TILL WE MEET AGAIN 
 
 Page 351. 
 
I 
 
LOWELL. 
 
 851 
 
 Your logic, my friend, is perfect. 
 Your uiorals most drearily true; 
 But, siuce the earth clashed ou her 
 
 coffin, 
 I keep hearing that, and not you. 
 
 Console if you will. 1 can bear it; 
 "Tis a well-meant alms of breath; 
 But not all the preaching since Adam 
 Has made death other than death. 
 
 It is pagan; but wait till you feel it; 
 That jar of our earth, that dull shock 
 When the ploughshare of deeper pas- 
 sion 
 Tears down to our primitive rock. 
 
 Communion in spirit I Forgive me ! 
 But I, who am earthy and weak, 
 AVoukl give all my incomes from 
 
 dreamland 
 For a touch of her hand on my cheek. 
 
 That little shoe in the corner. 
 So worn and wrinkled and brown, 
 With its emptiness confutes jou, 
 .\.nd argues your wisdom down. 
 
 [From Under the Willoivs.] 
 JUNE. 
 
 Frank-hearted hostess of the field 
 
 and wood, 
 Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading 
 
 tree, 
 Jime is the pearl of our New England 
 
 year. 
 Still a surprisal, though expected 
 
 long. 
 Her coming startles. Long she lies 
 
 in wait, 
 Makes many a feint, peeps forth, 
 
 draws coyly back. 
 Then, from some southern ambush 
 
 in the sky. 
 With one great gush of blossom 
 
 storms the world. 
 A week ago tbe sparrow was divine ; 
 The blue-bird shifting his light load 
 
 of song 
 From post to post along the cheerless 
 
 fence. 
 
 Was as a rhymer ere the poet come : 
 But now, O rapture ! sunshine-winged 
 
 and voiced, 
 Pilje blown through by the warm 
 
 wild breath of the West, 
 Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy 
 
 cloud. 
 Gladness of woods, skies, waters all 
 
 in one. 
 The bobolink has come, and, like the 
 
 soul 
 Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, 
 Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what, 
 SavCf/Hne .' Dear June ! Noic God be 
 
 praised for June. 
 
 AUF WIEDEliSEHEX. 
 
 The little gate was reached at last, 
 Half liid in lilacs down the lane; 
 She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
 A wistful look she backward cast. 
 And said. — ''Auf iciederse/ien .' " 
 
 With hand on latch, a vision white 
 
 Lingered reluctant, and again 
 Half doubting if she did aright. 
 Soft as the dews that fell that night, 
 She said,— ''Auf iciedersehen ! " 
 
 The lamp's clear gleam flits up the 
 stair; 
 I linger in delicious pain ; 
 Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
 To breathe in thought I scarcely 
 dare. 
 Thinks she, — '^Attfiviedersehen ! " 
 
 "Tis thirteen years; once more I 
 press 
 
 The turf that silences the lane ; 
 I hear the rustle of her dress, 
 I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 
 
 1 hear "Aiif loiedersehen ! ''' 
 
 Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 
 The English words had seemed too 
 fain. 
 But these — they drew us heart to 
 
 heart. 
 Yet held us tenderly apart; 
 She said, — "Auf ifiedersehen ! '' 
 
352 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 STORM AT APPLEDOIiE. 
 
 How looks Appledore in a storm ? 
 I have seen it wlien its crags 
 
 seemed frantic, 
 Butting against tlie mad Atlantic, 
 When surge on surge would heap 
 enorme, 
 Cliffs of emerald topped with snow. 
 That lifted and lifted, and then let 
 go 
 A great white avalanche of thunder, 
 A grinding, blinding, deafening ire 
 Monadnock might have trembled un- 
 der ; 
 And the island, whose rock-roots 
 
 pierce below 
 To where they are warmed with 
 the central fire. 
 You could feel its granite fibres 
 racked. 
 As it seemed to plunge with a 
 
 shudder and thrill 
 Right at the breast of the swooping 
 hill. 
 And to rise again snorting a cataract 
 Of rage-froth from every cranny and 
 ledge, 
 While the sea drew its breath in 
 hoarse and deep. 
 And the next vast breaker curled its 
 edge. 
 Gathering itself for a mightier leap. 
 
 North, east, and south there are reef s 
 and breakers 
 You would never dream of in 
 smooth weather. 
 That toss and gore the sea for acres. 
 Bellowing and gnashing and snarl- 
 ing together; 
 Look northward, where Duck Island 
 
 lies. 
 And over its crown you will see arise. 
 Against a background of slaty skies, 
 A row of pillars still and white, 
 That c;linuuer, and then are out of 
 sight, 
 As if the moon should suddenly kiss. 
 While you crossed the gusty desert 
 by night. 
 The long colonnades of Persepolis; 
 Look southward for White Island 
 light, 
 
 The lantern stands ninety feet o'er 
 
 the tide; 
 There is (irst a half-mile of tumult 
 
 and fight. 
 Of dash and roar and tumble and 
 fright. 
 And surging bewilderment wild and 
 wide, 
 Wliere the breakers straggle left and 
 right, 
 Then a mile or more of rushing 
 sea, 
 And then the lighthouse slim and 
 
 lone; 
 And whenever the weight of ocean is 
 
 thrown 
 Full and fair on White Island head, 
 A great mist-jotun you will see 
 Lifting himself up silently 
 High and huge o'er the lighthouse 
 
 top, 
 With hands of wavering spray out- 
 spread, 
 Groping after the little tower. 
 That seems to shrink and shorten 
 and cower, 
 Till the monster's arms of a sudden 
 drop, 
 And silently and fruitlessly 
 He sinks again into the sea. 
 
 You, meanwhile, where drenched 
 you stand. 
 Awaken once more to the rush and 
 roar. 
 And on the rock-point tighten your 
 
 hand, 
 As you tiu'n and see a valley deep, 
 That was not there a moment be- 
 fore, 
 Suck rattling down between you and a 
 heap [fall 
 
 Of toppling billow, whose instant 
 Must sink the whole island once 
 for all ; 
 Or watch the silenter, stealthier seas 
 Feeling their way to you more and 
 more ; 
 If they once should clutch you high 
 
 as the knees. 
 They would whirl you down like a 
 
 sprig of kelp. 
 Beyond all reach of hope or help; — 
 And such in a storm is Appledore. 
 
LYTE — LYTLE. 
 
 353 
 
 Henry Francis Lyte. 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME. 
 
 Abide with me! fast falls the even- 
 tide; 
 
 The darkness deepens; Lord, with 
 me abide ! 
 
 When other lielpers fail, and com- 
 forts flee. 
 
 Help of the helpless, oh, abide with 
 me! 
 
 Swift to its close ebbs out life's little 
 
 day ; 
 Earth's joys grow dim; its glories 
 
 pass away ; 
 Change and decay in all ai'ound I see; 
 O Thon who changest not, abide with 
 
 Not a brief glance, I beg, a passing 
 word ; 
 
 But as Thou ihvelledst with Thy dis- 
 ciples. Lord, 
 
 Familiar, condescending, patient, 
 free, 
 
 Come, not to sojourn, but abide with 
 me! 
 
 Come not in terrors, as the King of 
 
 kings; 
 But kind and good, with healing in 
 
 Tliy wings; 
 Tears for all woes, a heart for every 
 
 plea; 
 Come, Friend of sinners, thus al)ide 
 
 with me! 
 
 Thou on my head in eaily youth didst 
 
 smile; 
 And, thougli rebellious and perverse 
 
 meanwliile, 
 Thou hast not left me, oft as 1 left 
 
 Thee. 
 On to the close. O Lord, abide with 
 
 me! 
 
 I need Thy presence every passing 
 
 hour : 
 What but Thy grace can foil tlie 
 
 tempter's power ? 
 Who like Thyself my guide and stay 
 
 can be ? 
 Through cloud and sunshine, oli, 
 
 abide with me! 
 
 I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to 
 bless : 
 
 Ills have no weight, and tears no bit- 
 terness : 
 
 Where is Death's sting? Where 
 Grave, thy victory ? 
 
 I triumph still," if Thoii abide with 
 me! 
 
 Hold, then. Thy cross before my 
 
 closing eyes! 
 Shine tlirough the gloom, and point 
 
 me to tlie skies! 
 Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's 
 
 vain shadows flee ; 
 In life and death, O Lord, abide with 
 
 me ! 
 
 William Haines Lytle. 
 
 ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I AM dying, Egypt, dying. 
 
 Ebbs the crimson life-tiile fast, 
 Aiid tlie dark Plutonian shadows 
 
 Gather on the evening blast; 
 Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold 
 me. 
 
 Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; 
 Listen to tlie great heart-secrets. 
 
 Thou, and thou alone, nuist hear. 
 
 Though my scaned and veteran le- 
 gions 
 Bear their eagles high no more, 
 And my wrecked and scattered gal- 
 leys 
 Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, 
 Though no glittering guards surround 
 me. 
 Prompt to do their masters will, 
 I must perish like a Roman. 
 Die the great Triumvir still. 
 
354 
 
 MACAULAY. 
 
 Let not Caesar's servile minions 
 
 Moclc the lion thus laid low; 
 "Twas no foeman's arm that felled 
 him, [blow : 
 
 'Twas his own that struck the 
 His, who pillowed on thy bosom, 
 
 Turned aside from glory's ray, 
 His who, drunk with tliy caresses. 
 
 Madly threw a world away. 
 
 Should the base plebeian rabble 
 
 Dare assail my name at Rome, 
 Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 
 
 Weeps within her widowed Iiome, 
 Seek her; say the gods bear witness — 
 
 Altars, augurs, circling wings — 
 That her blood, with mine commin- 
 gled, [kings. 
 
 Yet shall mount the throne of 
 
 As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! 
 
 Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! 
 Light the path to Stygian horrors 
 
 With the splendors of thy smile, 
 (five the C:esar crowns and arches. 
 
 Let his brow the laurel twine: 
 1 can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 
 
 Triumphing in love like thine. 
 
 1 am dying, Egj-pt, dying! 
 Hark ! " the insulting foeman's 
 
 cry. 
 They are coming — quick, my 
 chion ! 
 Let me fi-ont them ere I die. 
 Ah ! no moi'e amid the battle 
 
 Shall my heart exvilting swell ; 
 Isis and Osiris guard thee ! 
 Cleopatra — Rome — farewell ! 
 
 fal- 
 
 ThoMas Babington Macaulay. 
 
 FROM THE LAY OF "■HORATIUS: 
 
 Laks Porsena of Clusium, 
 
 By the Nine Gods he swore 
 That the great house of Tarquin 
 
 Should suffer wrong no more. 
 By the Nine Gods he swore it, 
 
 And named a trysting-day, 
 And bade his messengers ride forth. 
 East and west and south and north. 
 
 To sununon his array. 
 
 East and west and south and north 
 
 Tlie messengers ride fast. 
 And tower and town and cottage 
 
 Have heard the trumpet's blast. 
 Shame on the false Etruscan 
 
 Who lingers in his home, 
 AVhen Porsena of ("lusium 
 
 Is on the march for Rome ! 
 
 The horsemen and the footmen 
 
 Are pouring in amain 
 From many a stately market-place. 
 
 From many a fruitful i)lain. 
 From many a lonely hamlet. 
 
 Which, hid by beech and pine. 
 
 Like an eagle's nest hangs on the 
 crest 
 Of purple Apennine : 
 
 There be thirty chosen prophets. 
 
 The Avisest of the land. 
 Who always by Lars Porsena 
 
 Both morn and evening stand. 
 Evening and morn the Thirty 
 
 Have turned the verses o'er. 
 Traced from the right on linen white 
 
 By mighty seers of yore ; 
 
 And with one voice the Thirty 
 
 Have their glad answer given : 
 " Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; 
 
 Go forth, beloved of Heaven ! 
 Go, and return in glory 
 
 To CHusium's royal dome. 
 And hang round Nurscia's altars 
 
 The golden shields of Rome ! ' ' 
 
 And now hath every city 
 
 Sent up her tale of men ; 
 The foot are fourscore thousand, 
 
 The horse are thousands ten. 
 
Before the gates of Sutrium 
 
 Is met the great array ; 
 A proinl man was Lars Porsena 
 
 Upon the trysting-day. 
 
 For all the Etruscan armies 
 
 Were ranged beneath liis eye, 
 And many a banished Roman, 
 
 And many a stout ally; 
 And with a mighty follow ing, 
 
 To join the muster, came 
 The Tusculan Mamilius, 
 
 Prince of the Latian name. 
 
 Now, from the rock Tari)eian, 
 
 Could the wan burghers spy 
 The line of blazing villages 
 
 Red in the midnight sky. 
 The Fathers of the City, 
 
 They sat all night and day. 
 For every hour some horseman came 
 
 AVith tidings of dismay. 
 
 To eastward and to westwartl 
 
 Have spread the Tuscan bands. 
 Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote 
 
 In Crustumerium stands. 
 Verbenna down to Ostia 
 
 Hath wasted all the plain; 
 Astur hath stormed Janiculum, 
 
 And the stout guards are slain. 
 
 I wis, in all the Senate 
 
 There was no heart so bold 
 But sore it ached, and fast it beat, 
 
 When that ill news was told. 
 Forthwith up rose the Consul, 
 
 Up rose the Fathers all ; 
 In haste they girded up their gowns. 
 
 And hied them to the wall. 
 
 They held a council, standing 
 
 Before the River-gate; 
 Short time was there, ye well may 
 guess, 
 
 For musing or debate. 
 Out spake the Consul roundly : 
 
 " The bridge must straight go 
 down ; 
 For, since Janiculum is lost. 
 
 Naught else can save the town." 
 
 Just then a scout came flying. 
 All wild with haste and fear ; 
 
 " To arms! to arms! Sir Consul; 
 
 Lars Porsena is here." 
 On the low hills to westward 
 
 The Consul fixed his eye. 
 And saw the swarthy storm of dust 
 
 Rise fast along the sky. 
 
 And nearer fast and nearer 
 
 Doth the red whirlwind come ; 
 And louder still, and still more loud. 
 From underneath that rolling cloud, 
 Is heard the trumpets' war-note 
 proud. 
 
 The trampling and the hum. 
 And plainly and more i)lainly 
 
 Now through the gloom appears, 
 Far to left and far to right. 
 In broken gleams of dark-blue light, 
 The long array of helmets bright, 
 
 The long array of speai's. 
 
 Fast by the royal standard, 
 
 O'erlooking all the war, 
 Lars Porsena of Clusium 
 
 Sat in his ivory car. 
 By the right wheel rode Mamilius, 
 
 Prince of the Latian name ; 
 And by the left false Sextus, 
 
 That wrought the deed of shame. 
 
 But when the face of Sextus 
 
 Was seen among the foes, 
 A yell that rent the firmament 
 
 From all the town arose. 
 On the house-tops was no woman 
 
 But spat towards him and hissed, 
 No child but screamed out curses. 
 
 And shook its little fist. 
 
 But the Consul's brow was sad. 
 
 And the Consul's speech was low, 
 And darkly looked he at the wall, 
 
 And darkly at the foe: 
 " Their van will be upon us 
 
 Before the bridge goes down; 
 And if they once may win the bridge, 
 
 What hope to save the town '? ' ' 
 
 Then out spake brave Horatius, 
 
 The Captain of the gate : 
 " To every man upon this earth 
 
 Death cometh soon or late. 
 And how can man die better 
 
 Than facing fearful odds 
 
For the ashes of his fathers 
 And the temples of his gods ? 
 
 " And for the tender motlier 
 
 Who dandled him to rest, 
 And for tlie wife who nurses 
 
 His baby at lier breast, 
 And for tlie lioly maidens 
 
 Wlio feed tlie eternal flame, — 
 To save them from false hiextus 
 
 That wrought the deed of shame? 
 
 •• Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, 
 
 \Vith ail the speed ye may; 
 I, with two more to help me, 
 
 AVill hold the foe in play. 
 In yon strait path a thousand 
 
 May well I)e stopped by three: 
 Now who will stand on either hand. 
 
 And keep the bridge with me'?" 
 
 Then out spake Spurius Lartius, — 
 
 A Ramnian proud was he: 
 '* Lo, I will stand at thy right hand. 
 
 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 And out spake strong Herminius, — 
 
 Of Titian blood was lie: 
 '• I will abide on thy left side. 
 
 And keep the bridge with thee." 
 
 " Horatius," quoth the Consul, 
 
 '■ As thou sayest so let it be." 
 And straight against that great array 
 
 Went forth the dauntless three. 
 For Romans in Rome's quarrel 
 
 Spared neither land nor gold. 
 Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life. 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 Then none was for a party — 
 
 Then all were for the state; 
 Then the great man helped the poor. 
 
 And the poor man loved the great; 
 Then lands were fairly portioned! 
 
 Then spoils were fairly sold: 
 'l"he Romans were like brothers 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 Now Roman is to Roman 
 
 Mort! hateful than a foe. 
 And the trilmnes beard the liigh, 
 
 And the fathers grind the low. 
 As we wax hot in faction. 
 
 In battle we wax cold; 
 
 Wherefore men fight not as they 
 fought 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 Now while the three were tightening 
 
 Their harness on their backs, 
 The Consul was the foremost man 
 
 To take in hand an axe; 
 And fathers, mixed with commons, 
 
 Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. 
 And smote upon tlie planks above. 
 
 And loosed the props below. 
 
 Meanwhile the Tuscan army, 
 
 Right glorious to behold, 
 Came flashing back the noonday 
 
 light, 
 Rank behind rank, like surges bright 
 
 Of a broad son of gold. 
 Four hundred trumpets sounded 
 
 A peal of warlike glee. 
 As that great host with measured 
 
 tread, 
 And spears advanced, and ensigns 
 
 spread. 
 Rolled slowly towards the bridge's 
 head. 
 Where stood the dauntless tlin c 
 
 The three stood calm and silent, 
 And looked upon the foes. 
 
 And a great shout of laughter 
 From all the vanguard rose; 
 
 And forth three chiefs came spurring 
 
 • Before that dee]) array; 
 
 To earth they sprang, their swords 
 they drew. 
 
 And lifted high their shields, and 
 flew 
 To win the narrow way. 
 
 Herminius smote down Aruns; 
 
 Lartius laid Ocnus low; 
 Right to the heart of Lausulus 
 
 Horatius sent a blow: 
 " lAe tiiere," he cried, " fell pirate! 
 
 No more, aghast and pale. 
 From Oslia's walls the crowd shall 
 
 mark 
 The track of thy destroying bark ; 
 No more Campania's hinds shall fly 
 To woods and caverns, when they spy 
 
 Thy thrice-accursed sail! " 
 
MACAULAV 
 
 357 
 
 But now no sound of laughter 
 
 Was heard among the foes : 
 A wild and wrathful clamor 
 
 From all the vanguard rose. 
 Six spears" length from the entrance. 
 
 Halted tliat mighty mass, 
 And for a space no man came forth 
 
 To win the narrow pass. 
 
 But, hark! the cry is Astur: 
 
 And lo! the ranks divide; 
 And the great lord of Luna 
 
 Comes with his stately stride. 
 Upon his ample shoulders 
 
 Clangs loud the fourfold shield, 
 And inhis hand he shakes the brand 
 
 Which none but he can wield. 
 
 He smiled on those bold Romans, 
 
 A smile serene and high ; 
 He eyed the flinching Tuscans, 
 
 And scorn was In his eye. 
 Quoth he, " Th(> she-wolf's litter 
 
 Stands savagely at bay ; 
 But will ye dare to follow. 
 
 If Astur clears the way? " 
 
 Then, whirling up his broadsword 
 
 With both hands to the height. 
 He rushed against Iloratius. 
 
 And smote with all his might. 
 With shield and blade Horatius 
 
 Right deftly turned the blow. 
 The blow, though turned, came yet 
 
 too nigh; 
 It missed his hehn, but gashed his 
 
 thigh. 
 The Tuscans raised a joyful cry 
 
 To see the red blood flow. 
 
 He reeled, and on Herminius 
 
 He leaned one breathing-space. 
 Then, like a wild-cat mad with 
 wounds, 
 
 Sprang right at Astur's face. 
 Through teeth and skull and helmet 
 
 So lierce a thrust he sped, |out 
 
 The good sword stood a handbreadth 
 
 Behind the Tuscan's head. 
 
 And the great lord of Luna 
 Fell at that d(\idly stroke. 
 
 As falls on Mount Avernus 
 A thunder-smitten oak. 
 
 Far o'er the crashing forest 
 The giant arms lie spread; 
 
 And the pale augurs, nuittering low, 
 Gaze on the blasted head. 
 
 Yet one man for one moment 
 
 Strode out before the crowd; 
 Well known was he to all tlie Thre(>, 
 
 And they gave him greeting loud: 
 "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! 
 
 Now welcome to thy home ! 
 Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? 
 
 Here lies the road to Rome." 
 
 Thrice looked he at the city ; 
 
 Thrice looked he at the dead ; 
 And thrice came on in fury, 
 
 And thrice turned back in dread; 
 And, white with fear and hatred, 
 
 Scowled at the nai-row way 
 Where, wallowing in a pool of blood 
 
 The bravest Tuscans lay. 
 
 But meanwhile axe and lever 
 
 Have manfully been plied; 
 And now th(> bridge hangs tottering 
 
 Above the boiling tide. 
 " Come back, come back, Horatius! " 
 
 Loud cried the Fathers all — 
 " Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! 
 
 Back, ere the ruin fall! " 
 
 Back darted Spxnius Lartius — 
 
 Herminius darted back; 
 And, as they passed, beneath their 
 feet 
 
 They felt the timbers crack. 
 But when they turned their faces. 
 
 And on the farther shore 
 Saw brave Horatius stand alone, 
 
 They would have crossed once 
 mon>; 
 
 But with a crash like thunder 
 
 Fell every loosened beam. 
 And, like a dain, the mighty wreck 
 
 Lay right athwart the stream; 
 And a long shout of triumph 
 
 Rose from the walls of Rome, 
 As to the highest turret-tops 
 
 Was sjilashed the yellow foam. 
 
 And like a horse unbroken. 
 When first he feels the rein, 
 
358 
 
 MACAULAV. 
 
 The furious river struggled hard, 
 And tossed his tawny mane, 
 
 And burst the curb, anil bounded, 
 Rejoicing to be free ; 
 
 And whirling down, in fierce career, 
 
 Battlement, and plank, and pier, 
 Rushed headlong to the sea. 
 
 Alone stood brave Horatlus, 
 
 IJut constant still in mind — 
 Thrice tliirty thousand foes before. 
 
 And the broad flood behind. 
 '"Down with him!" cried false 
 Sextus, 
 
 With a smile on his pale face; 
 '•Now yield thee," cried Lars Por- 
 sena, 
 
 ' ' Now yield thee to our grace ! ' ' 
 
 Round turned he, as not deigning 
 
 Tliose craven ranks to see : 
 Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, 
 
 To Sextus naught spake he ; 
 l>ut he saw on Palatinus 
 
 The white porch of his home ; 
 And he spake to the noble river 
 
 That rolls by the towers of Rome : 
 
 "O Tiber! Father Tiber! 
 
 To whom the Romans pray, 
 A Roman's life, a Roman's arms. 
 
 Take thou in charge this day!" 
 So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed 
 
 The good sword by his side, 
 And, with his harness on his back. 
 
 Plunged headlong in the tide. 
 
 No sovmd of joy or sorrow 
 
 Was heard from either bank, 
 But friends and foes in dumb sur- 
 prise. 
 With parted lips and straining eyes, 
 
 Stood gazing where he sank ; 
 And wlien above the surges 
 
 They saw his crest appear. 
 All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, 
 And even the ranks of Tuscany 
 
 Could scarce forbear to cheer. 
 
 But fiercely ran the current. 
 Swollen high by months of rain ; 
 
 And fast his blood was flowing; 
 And he was sore in pain. 
 
 And heavy with his armor. 
 
 And spent with changing blows; 
 
 And oft they thought him sinking, 
 But still again he rose. 
 
 Never, I ween, did swimmer. 
 
 In sucli an evil case. 
 Struggle through such a raging 
 ^ flood 
 
 Safe to the landing-place; 
 But his limbs were borne up bravely 
 
 By the brave heart within. 
 And our good father Tiber 
 
 Bare bravely up his chin. 
 
 "Curse on him!" quoth false Sex- 
 tus — 
 
 " Will not the villain drown ? 
 But for this stay, ere close of day 
 
 We should have sacked the town ! " 
 "Heaven help liim!" quoth Lars 
 Porsena, 
 
 " And bring him safe to shore; 
 For such a gallant feat of arms 
 
 Was never seen before." 
 
 And now he feels the bottom ; 
 
 Now on dry earth he stands; 
 Now round him throng the Fathers 
 
 To press his gory hands ; 
 And now, with shouts and clapping, 
 
 And noise of weeping loud. 
 He enters through the River-Gate. 
 
 Borne by the joyous crowil. 
 
 They gave him of the corn-land. 
 
 That was of i)ublic right. 
 As much as two strong oxen 
 
 Could plough from morn till 
 night; 
 And they made a molten image. 
 
 And set it up on high — 
 And there it stands unto this day 
 
 To witness if I lie. 
 
 It stands in the Comitium, 
 
 Plain for all folk to see, — 
 Horatius in his harness 
 
 Halting upon one knee; 
 And underneatli is written, 
 
 In letters all of gold. 
 How valiantly lie kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
MAC DONALD. 
 
 359 
 
 George MacDonald. 
 
 THE BABY. 
 
 Where did you come from, baby 
 
 dear ? 
 Ont of the everywhere into here. 
 
 Where did you get those eyes so bhie? 
 Out of tlie sky as I came through. 
 
 What makes the light in them spar- 
 kle and spin ? 
 Some of the starry spikes left in. 
 
 Where did you get that little tear ? 
 1 found it waiting when I got here. 
 
 AVhat makes your forehead so smooth 
 
 and high '? 
 A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 
 
 What makes your cheek like a warm 
 
 white rose ? 
 I saw something better than any one 
 
 knows. 
 
 Whence that three-cornered smile of 
 
 bliss ? 
 Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 
 
 Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
 (rod spoke," and it came out to hear. 
 
 Wliere did you get those arms and 
 
 hands ? 
 Love made itself into bonds and 
 
 bands. 
 
 Feet, whence did you come, you dar- 
 ling things ? 
 
 From the^ same box as the cherub's 
 wings. 
 
 How did they all just come to be 
 
 you? 
 (Jod thought about me, and so I grew. 
 
 But how did you come to us, you 
 
 dear? 
 God thought about you, and so I am 
 
 here. 
 
 O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL. 
 
 O LASSIE ayont the hill ! 
 Come ower the tap o' the hill, 
 Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, 
 For I want ye sair the nicht, 
 I'm needin' ye sair the nicht. 
 For I'm tired and sick o' mysel', 
 A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — 
 O lassie, come ower the hill! 
 
 Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, 
 
 i\ nd no a sel' ava ! 
 
 I'm sick o' my held, and my ban's 
 
 and my face. 
 An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ; 
 I'm sick o' the warl' and a' ; 
 The licht gangs by wi' a hiss ; 
 For thro' my een the sunbeams fa', 
 But my weary heart they miss. 
 
 lassie ayont the hill ! 
 Come ower the tap o' the hill. 
 Or roun' the neuk o' the hill; 
 Bidena ayont the hill! 
 
 For gin ance I saw yer bonnie held, 
 And the sun licht o' yer hair, 
 The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doun 
 " deid; 
 
 1 wad be mysel' nae mair. 
 I wad be mysel' nae mair. 
 Filled o' the sole remeid ; 
 
 Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer 
 
 hair, 
 Killed by yer body and held. 
 
 lassie ayont the hill, etc. 
 
 But gin ye lo'ed me ever sae sma'. 
 For the sake o' my bonnie dame. 
 Whan I cam' to life, as she gaed 
 awa', 
 
 1 could bide my body and name, 
 
 I micht bide by mysel, the weary 
 same ; 
 Aye setting up its held 
 Till I turn frae the claes that cover 
 
 my frame. 
 As gin they war roun' the deid. 
 O lassie ayont the hill, etc. 
 
360 
 
 MACK. 
 
 But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you, 
 I wad ring my ain deid knell ; 
 Mysel' watl vanish, shot through and 
 
 tlirougli 
 Wi' the shine o' yer sunny sel', 
 IJy the licht aneatli yer broo, 
 I wad dee to niyoel', and ring my bell, 
 And only live in you. 
 
 O lassie ayont the hill ! 
 Come ower the tap o' the hill, 
 Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, 
 For I want ye sair the nicht, 
 I'm needin' ye sair the nicht, 
 P'or I'm tired and sick o' mysel', 
 A body's sel' 's the sairest vveicht, — 
 O lassie, come ower the hill I 
 
 Frances Laughton Mace. 
 
 EASTER MOIiNING. 
 
 Open the gates of the Temple ; 
 Spread branches of palm and of 
 bay; 
 Let not the spirits of nature 
 
 Alone declc the Conqueror's way. 
 While Spring from her death-sleep 
 arises, 
 And joyous His presence awaits, 
 While morning's smile lights up tlie 
 lieavens. 
 Open the Beautiful Gates. 
 
 He is here! The long watches are 
 over. 
 The stone from the grave rolled 
 away ; 
 " We shall sleep," was the sigh of the 
 midnight, 
 " We shall rise ! " is the song of to- 
 day. 
 O Music! no longer lamenting. 
 
 On pinions of tremulous llame. 
 Go soaring to meet the Beloved, 
 And swell the new song of His 
 fame! 
 
 The altar is snowy with blossoms, 
 
 'ilip font is a vase of pei-fmne. 
 On pillar and chancel are twining 
 
 Fresh garlands of eloquent bloom. 
 Christ is risen! with glad lips we 
 utter, 
 
 And far up the infinite height, 
 Archangels the ]ia;an re-echo. 
 
 And crown Him with Lilies of 
 Light: 
 
 ONLY IF A /TING. 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer gi-own, 
 Only waiting till Ihj glimmer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown ; 
 Till the niglit of earth is faded 
 
 From this heart once full of day, 
 Till the dawn of Heaven is breaking 
 
 Through the twilight soft and gray. 
 
 Only waiting till the reapers 
 
 Have the last sheaf gathered home. 
 For the summer-time hath faded. 
 
 And the autumn winds are come. 
 Quickly, reapers ! gather quickly. 
 
 The last ripe hours of my heart, 
 For the bloom of life is withered. 
 
 And I hasten to depart. 
 
 Only waiting till the angels 
 
 Open wide the mystic gate, 
 At Avhose feet I long have lingered, 
 
 AVeaiy, poor, and desolate. 
 Even now I hear their footsteps 
 
 And their voices far away — 
 If they call me, I am waiting, 
 
 Only waiting to obey. 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows 
 
 Are a little longer grown — 
 Only waiting till the glimmer 
 
 Of the day's last beam is flown. 
 When from out the folded darkness 
 
 Holy, deathless stars shall rise. 
 By whose light, my soul will gladly 
 
 Wing her passage to the skies. 
 
MACK A y. 
 
 801 
 
 THE HELIOTROPE. 
 
 SOMEWHEHE 'tis told that in an East- 
 ern land, 
 
 Clasped in the dull palm of a mum- 
 my's hand, 
 
 A few light seeds were found ; with 
 wondering eyes 
 
 And words of awe was lifted up the 
 prize. 
 
 And much they marvelled what could 
 he so dear 
 
 Of herb or flower as to be treasured 
 here ; 
 
 What sacred vow had made the dy- 
 ing keep 
 
 So close this token for his last, long 
 sleep. 
 
 None ever knew, but in the fresh, 
 warm earth 
 
 The cherished seeds sprang to a sec- 
 ond birth. 
 
 And, eloquent once more with love 
 and hope, 
 
 Burst into bloom the purple helio- 
 trope. 
 
 Embalmed perhaps with sorrow's 
 
 fiery tears. 
 Out of the silence of a thousand 
 
 years 
 It answered back the passion of the 
 
 past 
 With the pure breath of perfect peacii 
 
 at last. 
 
 O pulseless heart ! as ages pass, sleep 
 
 well! 
 The pun^le flower thy secret will not 
 
 tell, 
 But only to our eager quest reply — 
 " Love, memory, hope, like me can 
 
 never die !" 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 THE CHILD AND THE MOUllSEUS. 
 
 A LITTLE child, beneath a tree. 
 Sat and chanted cheerily 
 A little song, a pleasant song, 
 Which was, — she sang it all tlay 
 
 long, — 
 " When the wind blows the blossoms 
 
 fall, 
 But a good God reigns over all! '" 
 
 There passed a lady by the way. 
 Moaning in the face of day: 
 There were tears upon her cheek. 
 Grief in her heart too great to speak; 
 Her husband died but yester-morn. 
 And left her in the world forlorn. 
 
 She stopped and listened to the cliild. 
 That look'd to Heaven, and, singing, 
 
 smiled ; 
 And saw not, for her own despair. 
 Another lady, young and fair. 
 Who, also passing, stopped to hear 
 The infant's anthem ringing clear. 
 
 Eor she, but few sad days before, 
 Had lost the little babe she bore; 
 And grief was heavy at her soul, 
 As that sweet memory o'er her stol(\ 
 And showed how briglit had been the 
 
 past, 
 The pi'esent drear and overcast. 
 
 And as they stood beneath the tree, 
 Listening, soothed, and placidly, 
 A youth came by, whose sunken eyes, 
 Spake of a load of miseries; 
 And he, arrested like the twain. 
 Stopped to listen to tlie sti-ain. 
 
 Death had bowed the youthful head 
 Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : 
 Her marriage robes were fitted on. 
 Her fair young face with blushes 
 
 shone. 
 When the Destroyer smote her low, 
 And left the lover to his woe. 
 
 And the.se three listened to the song 
 Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, 
 
362 
 
 MACKAV. 
 
 Which that child, the livelong day, 
 
 Chanted to itself in play: 
 
 '• When the wind blows, the blossoms 
 
 fall, 
 I5ut a good God reigns over all." 
 
 The widow's lips impulsive moved; 
 The mother's grief, though unre- 
 
 jjroved, 
 Softened, as her trembling tongue 
 Repeated what the infant sung; 
 And the sad lover, with a start. 
 Conned it over to his heart. 
 
 And though the child — if child it 
 
 were, 
 And not a serajih sitting there — 
 Was seen no more, the sorrowing 
 
 three 
 AVent on their way resignedly, 
 The song still ringing in their ears — 
 AVas it music of the spheres ? 
 
 Who shall tell ? They did not know. 
 But in tiie midst of deepest woe 
 The strain recurred when sorrow grew, 
 To warn them, and console them too: 
 " When the wind blows, the blossoms 
 
 fall, 
 But a good God reigns over all." 
 
 CLEON AXD I. 
 
 Cleon hath ten thousand acres, 
 
 Ne'er a one have I; 
 Cleon dwelleth in a palace. 
 
 In a cottage, I ; 
 Cleon hath a dozen fortunes. 
 
 Not a i^enny, I ; 
 Yet the poorer of the twain is 
 
 T'leon, and not I. 
 
 ( leon, true, possesseth acres, 
 
 But the landscape, I; 
 Half the charms to me it yieldeth 
 
 Money cannot buy ; 
 Cleon harbors sloth and dulness, 
 
 Freshening vigor, I ; 
 He in velvet, I in fustian — 
 
 llicher man am I. 
 
 Cleon is a slave to grandeur, 
 
 Free as thought am I ; 
 Cleon fees a score of doctors, 
 
 Need of none have I ; 
 Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, 
 
 Cleon fears to die ; 
 Death may come — he'll find me 
 ready. 
 
 Happier man am I. 
 
 Cleon sees no charms in Nature, 
 
 In a daisy, I; 
 Cleon hears no anthems ringing 
 
 'Twixt tlie sea and sky; 
 Nature sings to me forever, 
 
 Earnest listener, I ; 
 State for state, with all attendants — 
 
 Who would change ? — Not I. 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY! 
 
 Men of thought! be up and stirring. 
 
 Night and day: 
 Sow the seed — withdraw the cur- 
 tain — 
 
 Clear the way ! 
 Men of action, aid and cheer them. 
 
 As ye may! 
 There's a fount about to stream. 
 There's a light about to beam. 
 There's a warmth about to glow. 
 There's a flower about to blow; 
 There's a midnight blackness chang- 
 ing 
 
 Into gray; 
 Men of thought and men of action. 
 
 Clear the way ! 
 
 Once the welcome light has broken. 
 
 Who shall say 
 What the unimagined glories 
 
 Of the day ? 
 What the evil that shall perish 
 
 In its ray ? 
 Aid the dawning, tongue and pen ; 
 Aid It, hopes of honest men ; 
 Aid it, paper — aid it, type — 
 Aid it, for the hour is ripe. 
 And our earnest must not slacken 
 
 Into play. 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 (."lear the wav ! 
 
MACKAV. 
 
 363 
 
 Lo ! a cloud 's about to vanish 
 
 From the day ; 
 And a brazen wrong to crumble 
 
 Into clay. 
 Lo! the Klght's about to conquer. 
 
 Clear the way ! 
 With the Eight, shall many more 
 Enter, smiling, at the door ; 
 With the giaiit Wrong, shall fall 
 Many others, great and small. 
 That for ages long have held us 
 
 For their prey. 
 Men of thought and men of action, 
 
 Clear the ^^■ay ! 
 
 THE GOOD TIME COyflXG. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 We may not live to see the day. 
 l>ut earth shall glisten in the ray 
 
 Of the good time coming. 
 Cannon-balls may aid the truth, 
 
 But thought's a weapon stronger; 
 We'll win our battle by its aid; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 'i'lie pen shall supersede the sword. 
 And Kiirht, not Might, shall be the 
 lord 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Worth, not Birth, shall rule man- 
 kind. 
 
 And be acknowledged stronger; 
 'J'lic proper impulse has been given ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 War, in all men's eyes, shall be 
 A monster of iniquity 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Nations shall not quarrel then. 
 
 To prove which is the stronger; 
 Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 Hateful rivalries of creed 
 Shall not make their martyrs bleed 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Religion shall be shorn of pride. 
 
 And flourish all the stronger; 
 And Charity shall trim her lamp ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 And a poor man's family 
 .Shall not be his misery 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 Every child shall be a help, # 
 
 To make his right arm stronger; 
 The happier he, the more he has; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 Little children shall not toil. 
 Under or above the soil. 
 
 In the good time coming; 
 But shall play in healthful fields 
 
 Till limbs and mind grow stronger; 
 And every one shall read and write ; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, lioys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 The people shall be temperate. 
 And shall love instead of hate. 
 
 In the good time coming. 
 They shall use, and not abuse. 
 
 And make all virtue stronger 
 The reformation has begun ; 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 There's a good time coming, boys, 
 
 A good time coming: 
 Let us aid it all we can. 
 Every woman, every man. 
 
 The good time conung. , 
 Smallest helps, if rightly given, 
 
 Make the impulse stronger; 
 'Twill be strong enough one day; — 
 
 Wait a little longer. 
 
 THE LIGHT IX THE WINDOW. 
 
 Late or early, home returning, 
 In the starlight or the rain, 
 I beheld that lonely candle 
 Shining from his window-pane. 
 
Ever o'er his tattered curtain, 
 
 Nightly looliing, I could scan, 
 
 Aye inditing, 
 
 Writing — writing, 
 
 The pale tigure of a man ; 
 
 Still discern behind him fall 
 
 The same shadow on tlic wall. 
 
 P'ar beyond the murky midnight, 
 By dim burning of my oil. 
 Filling aye his rapid leaflets, 
 I have watcheil him at his toil; 
 AVatched his broad and seamy fore- 
 head, 
 Watched his white industiious hand. 
 Ever passing 
 And repassing: 
 
 Watched and strove to nntlerstand 
 What impelled it — gold, or fame — 
 Bread, or bubble of a name. 
 
 Oft I've asked, debating vainly 
 
 In the silence of my mind. 
 
 What the services he rendered 
 
 To his country or his kind; 
 
 Whether tones of ancient music, 
 
 Or the soimd of modern gong, 
 
 Wisdom holy, 
 
 Humors lowly, 
 
 Sermon, essay, novel, song. 
 
 Or philosophy sublime, 
 
 Fill'd the measure of his time. 
 
 No one sought him, no one knew 
 
 him, 
 Undistinguished was his name: 
 Never had his praise been uttered 
 By the oracles of fame. 
 Scanty fare and decent raiment, 
 IIuml)Ie lodging, and a fire — 
 These he sought for. 
 These he wrought for. 
 And he gained liis meek desire; 
 Teaching men by written word — 
 Clinging to a hope deferred. 
 
 So he lived. At last I missed him; 
 Still might evening twilight fall. 
 But no taper lit his lattice — 
 Lay no shadow on his wall. 
 In the winter of his seasons, 
 In the midnight of his day, 
 'Mid his writing, 
 And inditing, 
 
 Death hath beckoned him away, 
 Ere the sentence he had planned 
 Found completion at his hand. 
 
 But this ]nan so old and nameless 
 Left behind him projects large. 
 Schemes of progress undeveloped. 
 Worthy of a nation's charge; 
 Noble fancies uncompleted, 
 Germs of beauty immatured. 
 Only needing 
 Kindly feeding 
 
 To have nourished and endured ; 
 Meet reward in golden store 
 To have lived for evermore. 
 
 Who shall tell what schemes maji-stic 
 
 Perish in the active brain ? 
 
 What hmnanity is robbed of, 
 
 Ne'er to be restored again ? 
 
 What we lose, because we honor 
 
 Overmuch the mighty dead, 
 
 And dispirit 
 
 Living merit, 
 
 Heaping scorn upon its head ? 
 
 Or perchance, when kinder grown, 
 
 Leaving it to die — alone ? 
 
 o YE TEAns; 
 
 vp: tears I O ye tears ! that have long 
 
 refused to flow, 
 Ye are welcome to my heart — thaw- 
 ing, thawing, like the snow; 
 
 1 feel the hard cfod soften, and the 
 
 early snowdrops si)ring. 
 And the healing fountains gush, and 
 the wildernesses sing. 
 
 O ye tears ! O ye tears! I am thank- 
 ful that ye run : 
 
 Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye 
 shall glitter in the sun. 
 
 The rainbow cannot shine if the rain 
 refuse to fall. 
 
 And the eyes that cannot weep are 
 the saddest eyes of all. 
 
 ye tears ! O ye tears ! till I felt you 
 
 on my cheek. 
 
 1 was selfish in my sorrow, I was stub- 
 
 born, I was weak. 
 
Ye have given me strength to conquer, 
 and I stand erect and free, 
 
 And know that 1 am hmuan by the 
 Hght of sympathy. 
 
 O ye tears ! O ye tears ! ye reheve me 
 
 of my pain ; 
 The barren rocic of i)ride has been 
 
 stricken once again: 
 Like tlie rock that Moses smote, amid 
 
 Horeb's burning sand. 
 It yields tlie flowing water to make 
 
 gladness in the land. 
 
 There is light upon my path, there is 
 svmsiune in my heart. 
 
 And the leaf and fruit of life shall 
 not utterly depart; 
 
 Ye restore to me the freshness and 
 the bloom of long ago — 
 
 O ye tears ! happy tears ! I am thank- 
 ful that ye flow ! 
 
 A QUESTION ANSWERED. 
 
 What to do to make thy fame 
 Live beyond thee in the tomb ? 
 
 And thine honorable name 
 Shine, a star, tlnough history's 
 gloom ? 
 
 Seize the Spirit of thy Time. 
 
 Take the measure of his height, 
 Look into his eyes sublime. 
 
 And imbue thee with their light. 
 
 Know his words ere they are spoken, 
 And w ith utterance loud and clear, 
 
 Firm, persuasive, and unbroken. 
 Breathe them in the people's ear. 
 
 Think whate'er the Spirit thinks. 
 Feel thyself whate'er he feels. 
 
 Drink at "fountains where he drinks, 
 And reveal what he reveals. 
 
 And whate'erthy medium be. 
 
 Canvas, stone, or printed sheet. 
 Fiction, or philosophy, 
 
 Or a balla'l for the street ; — 
 
 Or, perchance, with passion fraught. 
 Spoken words, like lightnings 
 thrown. 
 
 Tell the people all thy thought, 
 And the world shall be thine own! 
 
 EXrUACT FROM 'M HE V ERIE IN 
 THE GRASS." 
 
 0]\, beautiful green grass! Earth- 
 covering fair! 
 What shall be sung of thee, nor bright, 
 
 nor rare, 
 INor highly thought of ? Long green 
 
 grass that ^\■aves 
 By the wayside, ovut hath its own winged mariners to give it melody: 
 
 Tliou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold; 
 
 And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. 
 
 God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth, 
 
 ('an make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. 
 
 Hut soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, — from yonder wood it came! 
 The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name; — 
 Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind. 
 Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; 
 Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are void of art; 
 But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heait. 
 
 Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me. 
 To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree! 
 To suck once more in every breath their little souls away, 
 And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day. 
 When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy 
 Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy ! 
 
 I'm sadder now — I have had cause; but oh! I'm proud to think 
 That each puiv joy-fount, loved of yore. I yet delight to drink: — 
 Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky. 
 Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. 
 When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, 
 ril bear indeed life's heaviest curse, — a heart that hath waxed old I 
 
 Lady Caroline Nairn. 
 
 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 
 
 I'm wearin' awa", Jean, 
 Like snaw-wreaths in tliaw, Jean; 
 I'm wearin' awa' 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 There's nae sorrow there, Jean ; 
 There's neither caidd nor care, Jean, 
 The day's aye fair 
 
 r the Land o" the Leal. 
 
( )ur bonny bairn's there, Jean: 
 iSlie was baith gude and fair, Jean ; 
 And, oh! we grudged her sair 
 
 To the Land o' tlie Leal. 
 But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean — 
 And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean, — 
 The joy that's aye to last 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 tSae dear's that joy was bought, Jean. 
 Sae free the battle fought, Jean, 
 That sinfu' man e'er brought 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 Oh, dry your glistening e'e, Jean! 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean; 
 And angels beckon nie 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 Oh, baud ye leal and true, Jean! 
 Your day it's wearin' through, Jean: 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 Now, fare-ye-well, my ain Jean. 
 This warld's cares are vain, Jean: 
 AVe'Il meet, and we'll be fain, 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 William Newell. 
 
 SERVE GOD AND BE CHEERFUL. 
 
 •' Serve God and be cheerful." The 
 motto 
 .Shall be mine, as the bishop'^ of 
 old; 
 On my soul's coat-of-arms, I will 
 write it 
 In letters of azure and gold. 
 
 "Serve God and be cheerful," .self- 
 balanced, 
 Whether Fortune smile sweetly or 
 frown. 
 Christ stood king before Pilate. 
 Within me 
 1 carry the sceptre and crown. 
 
 " Serve God and be cheerful." Make 
 brighter 
 The brightness that falls to your 
 lot; 
 The rare or the daily-sent blessing. 
 Profane not with gloom and with 
 doubt. 
 
 " Serve God and be cheerful." Each 
 sorrow 
 Is — with your will in God's — for 
 the best, 
 0"er the cloud hangs the rainbow. 
 To-morrow 
 AVMll see the blue sky in the west. 
 
 "Serve God and be cheerful." The 
 
 darkness 
 
 Only masks the surprises of dawn; 
 
 And the deeper and grlnnnei- the 
 
 midnight, 
 
 The brighter and sweeter the morn. 
 
 "Serve God and be cheerful."" The 
 winter 
 Rolls round to the beautiful s]iring, 
 And in the green grave of the snow- 
 drift 
 The nest-building robins will sing. 
 
 " Serve God and be cheerful.'" Look 
 
 upward! [gloom: 
 
 God's countenance scatters the 
 
 And the soft summer light of II is 
 
 heaven 
 
 Shines over the cross and the tomb. 
 
 "Serve God and be cheerfid."" The 
 wrinkles 
 Of age we may take with a smile : 
 But the wrinkles of faithless fore- 
 boding [guile. 
 Are the crow's feet of Beelzebub's 
 
 " Serve God and be cheerful." Relig- 
 ion 
 Looks all the more lovely in white: 
 And God is best served by His servant 
 When, smiling, he serves in the 
 light; 
 
396 
 
 NEWMAN— NORTON. 
 
 And lives out the glad tidings of 
 Jesus 
 In the sunshine He came to im- 
 part. 
 For tlie fruit of His word and His 
 8pirit 
 "•Is love, joy and peace" in the 
 heart. 
 
 " Serve God and be cheerful." Live 
 nobly. 
 Do right and do good. Make the 
 best 
 Of the gifts and the work put before 
 you, 
 And to God, without fear, leave the 
 rest. 
 
 John Henry Newman 
 
 A VOICE FROM AFAH. 
 
 Wkep not for me ; — 
 Be blithe as wont, nor tinge with 
 
 gloom 
 The stream of love that circles home, 
 
 Light hearts and free! 
 Joy in the gifts Heaven's bounty 
 lends ; 
 Nor miss my face, dear friends! 
 
 I still am near; — 
 Watching the smiles 1 prized on 
 earth ; mirth ; 
 
 Your converse mild, your blameless 
 
 Now, too, I hear 
 Of whispered sounds the tale com- 
 plete. 
 Low prayers and music sweet. 
 
 A sea before 
 The Tlirone is spread : — its pure still 
 
 glass 
 Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass. 
 
 AVe, on its shore. 
 
 Share, in the bosom of our rest. 
 God's knowledge, and are blessed. 
 
 FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT. 
 
 Prune thou thy words, the thoughts 
 control 
 
 That o'er thee swell and throng: 
 They will condense within thy soul. 
 
 And change to purpose strong. 
 
 But he who lets his feelings run 
 
 In soft luxurious flow. 
 Shrinks A\hen hard service must be 
 done. 
 
 And faints at every woe. 
 
 Faith's meanest deed more favor 
 bears. 
 When hearts and wills are weighed. 
 Than highest transport's choicest 
 prayei-s. 
 Which bloom their hour and fade. 
 
 Andrews Norton. 
 
 SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHO WER. 
 
 The rain is o'er. How dense and 
 bright 
 Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! 
 Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight. 
 Contrasting with the dark blue 
 sky! 
 
 In grateful silence earth receives 
 The general blessing ; fresh and fair. 
 
 Each flower expands its little leaves, 
 As glad the common joy to share. 
 
 The softened sunbeams pour around 
 A fairy light, uncertain, pale; 
 
NORTON. 
 
 397 
 
 The wind blows cool; the scented 
 ground 
 Is breathin" odors on the iiale. 
 
 Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous 
 pile, 
 Methinks some spirit of the air 
 Might rest, to gaze below awhile. 
 Then turn to bathe and revel 
 there. 
 
 The sun breaks forth ; from off the 
 scene 
 Its floating veil of mist is flung; 
 And all the wilderness of green 
 With trembling drops of light is 
 huna. 
 
 Now gaze on nature, — yet the same; 
 Glowing with life, by breezes 
 fanned, 
 Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, 
 Fresh in her youtli, from (iod's own 
 hand. 
 
 Hear the rich music of that voice, 
 Which sounds from all below, 
 above ; 
 She calls her children to rejoice, 
 And round them throws her arms 
 of love. 
 
 Drink in her influence; low-born care, 
 And all the train of mean desire. 
 
 Refuse to breathe this holy air, 
 And mid this living light expire. 
 
 Caroline E. S. Norton. 
 
 BIXGEN ON THE RHIXE. 
 
 A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 
 
 There Avas lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; 
 
 But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away. 
 
 And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. 
 
 Tlie dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand. 
 
 And he said, " I nevermore shall see my own, my native land: 
 
 Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine. 
 
 For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 " Tell my brothers and companions, wlien they meet and crowd around. 
 To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. 
 That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day" was done. 
 Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sim ; 
 And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars. — 
 The death- wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; 
 And some v/ere young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, — 
 And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 " Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; 
 
 For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. 
 
 For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
 
 My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; 
 
 And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 
 
 I let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my father's sword; 
 
 And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine 
 
 On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
THE RIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 
 
 Page 399. 
 
O'REILLY. 
 
 399 
 
 John Boyle O'Reilly. 
 
 PEACE AXn PAIA\ 
 
 Thk day and night are symbols of 
 creation, 
 And each has part in all that God 
 has made: 
 Tliere is no ill without its compen- 
 sation. 
 And life and death are only light 
 and shade. 
 There never beat a heart so base and 
 sordid 
 But felt at times a sympathetic 
 glow; " [ed, 
 
 Tliere never lived a virtue unreward- 
 Xor died a vice without its meed of 
 woe. 
 
 In this brief life despair should never 
 reach us; 
 The sea looks wide because the 
 shores are dim; 
 The star that led the Magi still can 
 teach us 
 The way to go if we but look to Him. 
 
 And as we wade, the darkness clos- 
 ing o'er us, 
 The lumgry waters surging to the 
 chin. 
 Our deeds will rise like stepping- 
 stones before us — 
 The good and bad — for we may 
 use the sin. 
 
 A sin of youth, atoned for and for- 
 given, 
 Takes on a virtue, if we choose to 
 find: 
 When clouds across our onward path 
 are driven, 
 We still may steer by its pale light 
 behind. 
 A sin forgotten is in part to pay for, 
 A sin remembered is a constant 
 gain : 
 Sorrow, next joy, is what we ought 
 to pray for. 
 As next to peace we profit most 
 from pain. 
 
 THE HIDE OF COLLINS GRAVES. 
 
 No song of a soldier riding down 
 To the raging fight from Winchester 
 
 town ; 
 No song of a time that shook the 
 
 earth 
 With the nation's throe at a nation's 
 
 birth : 
 But the song of a brave man, free 
 
 from fear 
 As .Sheridan's self or Paul Revere; 
 Who risked what they risked, free 
 
 from strife. 
 And its promise of glorious pay — his 
 
 life! 
 
 The peaceful valley has waked and 
 
 stirred. 
 And the answering echoes of life are 
 
 heard : 
 The dew still clings to the trees and 
 
 grass, 
 And the early toilers smiling pass. 
 
 As they glance aside at the white- 
 walled homes. 
 
 Or up the valley where merrily comes 
 
 The brook that sparkles in diamond 
 rills 
 
 As the sun comes over the Hamp- 
 shire hills. 
 
 What was it that passed like an omi- 
 nous breath — 
 
 Like a shiver of fear or a touch of 
 death ? 
 
 What was it ? The valley is peace- 
 ful still. 
 
 And the leaves are afire on top of the 
 hill. 
 
 It was not a sound — nor a thing of 
 sense — 
 
 But a pain, like the pang of the 
 short suspense [see 
 
 That thrills tlie being of those who 
 
 At their feet the gulf "of Eternity ! 
 
400 
 
 a RE ILLY. 
 
 The air of the valley has felt the chill : 
 
 The workers j^ause at the door of the 
 mill; 
 
 The housewife, keen to the shiver- 
 ing air 
 
 Arrests her foot on the cottage stair, 
 
 Instinctive taught by the mother- 
 love, 
 
 And thinks of the sleeping ones 
 above. 
 
 Why start the listeners ? Why does 
 the course 
 
 ( )f the mill-stream widen ? Is it a 
 horse — 
 
 Hark to the sound of his hoofs, they 
 say — 
 
 That gallops so wildly Williamsburg 
 Vay ! 
 
 God! what was that, like a human 
 shriek 
 
 From the winding valley ? Will no- 
 body speak ? 
 
 "Will nobody answer those women 
 who cry 
 
 As the awful warnings thunder by ? 
 
 Whence come they ? Listen I And 
 now they hear 
 
 The sound of the galloping horse- 
 hoofs near; 
 
 They watch the trend of the vale, 
 and see [inglv, 
 
 The rider who thunders so menac- 
 
 With waving arms and warning 
 scream 
 
 To the home-filled banks of the val- 
 ley stream. [street 
 
 He draws no rein, but he shakes the 
 
 With a shout and the ring of the gal- 
 loping feet; 
 
 And this the cry he flings to the 
 wind : 
 
 "To the hills for your lives! The 
 flood is behind! " 
 
 He cries and is gone: but they know 
 
 the worst — 
 The breast of the Williamsburg dam 
 
 has burst! 
 The basin that nourished their happy 
 
 homes 
 Is changed to a demon. It comes! 
 
 it comes ! 
 
 A monster in aspect, with shaggy 
 
 front, 
 Of shattered dwellings, to take the 
 
 brunt 
 Of the homes they shatter — white- 
 
 maned and hoarse. 
 The merciless Terror fills the course 
 Of the narrow valley, and rushing 
 
 raves. 
 With Death on the first of its hissing 
 
 waves, [mill 
 
 Till cottage and street and crowded 
 Are crumbled and crushed. 
 
 But onward still. 
 In front of the roaring flood is heard 
 The galloping horse and the warning 
 
 word. 
 Thank God! the brave man's life is 
 
 spared ! 
 From Williamsburg town he nobly 
 
 dared 
 To race with the flood and take the 
 
 road 
 In front of the terrible swath it 
 
 mowed. 
 For miles it thundered and crashc.l 
 
 behind. 
 But he looked ahead with a steadfast 
 
 mind ; 
 " They must be warned! " was all he 
 
 said. 
 As away on his terrible ride he sped. 
 
 When heroes are called for, bring the 
 
 crown 
 To this Yankee rider: send him down 
 On the stream of time with the Cur- 
 
 tius old; 
 His deed as the Roman's was brAve 
 
 and bold, 
 And the tale can as noble a thrill 
 
 awake. 
 For he offered his life for the people's 
 
 sake. 
 
 FOUEVEn. 
 
 Those we love truly never die. 
 Though year by year the sad memo- 
 rial wreath, 
 A ring and flowers, types of life and 
 death. 
 Arc laid upon their graves. 
 
O'REILLY. 
 
 401 
 
 For death the pure life saves, 
 And life all pure is love; and love 
 
 can reach 
 From heaven to earth, and nobler 
 lessons teach 
 Than those by mortals read. 
 
 Well blessed is he who has a dear 
 one dead ; 
 A friend he has whose face will never 
 
 change — 
 A dear companion that will not grow 
 strange ; 
 The anchor of a love is death. 
 
 Tlie blessed sweetness of a loving 
 breath 
 Will reach our cheek all fi-esh tlirough 
 
 weary years, 
 For her who died long since, ah! 
 waste not tears, 
 She's thine unto the end. 
 
 Tliank God for one dead friend, 
 With face still radiant with the light 
 
 of truth, 
 Wliose love comes laden with the 
 scent of youth, 
 Tiu-ough twenty years of death ! 
 
 UifSPOKEiSr WOliDS. 
 
 The kindly words that rise within 
 tlie heart, 
 And thrill it witii their sympathetic 
 tone 
 But die ere spoken, fail to play their 
 part. 
 And claim a merit that is not their 
 own. 
 The kindly word unspoken is a sin, 
 A sin that wraps itself in purest 
 guise. 
 And telis the heart that, doubting, 
 looks within. 
 That not in speech, but thought, 
 the virtue lies. 
 
 Poor banished Hagar! — prayed a well 
 might burst 
 From out the santl to save her 
 parching child. 
 And loving eyes that cannot see the 
 mind 
 Will watch the expected movement 
 of the lip: 
 Ah! can ye let its cutting silence 
 wind 
 Around that heart, and scathe it 
 like a whip ? 
 
 Unspoken words, like treasmesin the 
 mine. 
 Are valueless until we give them 
 birth: 
 Like unfound gold their hidden beau- 
 ties shine. 
 Which God has made to bless and 
 gild the earth. 
 How sad 'twould be to see a masters 
 hand 
 Strike glorious notes upon a voice- 
 less lute ! 
 But oh! what pain when, at God's 
 own oomniaiid, 
 A heaitstring thrills Milli kind- 
 ness, but is mute ! 
 
 Then hide it not, the music of the 
 soul. 
 Dear sympathy, expressed with 
 kindly voice. 
 But let it like a shining river roll 
 To deserts dry, — to hearts that 
 woidd rejoice. 
 Oh! let the symphony of kindly 
 \\ords 
 Sound for the poor, the friendless, 
 and the weak; 
 And lie will liless you, — He who 
 struck these chords 
 Will strike another when in turn 
 you seek. 
 
 HIDDEN aiA.S. 
 
 But 'tis not so: another heart may FoK every sin that comes before the 
 thirst light. 
 
 For that kind word, as Hagar in And leaves an outward blemish on 
 the wild— ! the soul. 
 
402 
 
 OSGOOD. 
 
 How many, darker, cower out of 
 
 siglit, 
 An 1 burrow, blind and silent, like 
 
 the mole. 
 And like the mole, too, with its busy 
 
 feet 
 
 That dig and dig a never-ending 
 cave, 
 Our hidden sins gnaw through the 
 soul, and meet 
 And feast upon each other in its 
 grave. 
 
 Frances Sargent Osgood. 
 
 LABORAHE EST OR ARE. 
 
 PAtJSE not to dream of the future 
 
 before us ; 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares 
 
 that come o'er us; 
 Hark, how Creation's deep, musical 
 
 chorus, 
 Unintermitting, goes up into 
 
 heaven ! 
 Never the ocean wave falters in flow- 
 ing; 
 Never the little seed stops in its 
 
 growing; 
 More and more richly the rose heart 
 
 keeps glowing. 
 Till from its nourishing stem it is 
 
 riven. 
 
 "Labor is worship!" — the robin is 
 singing; 
 
 "• Labor is worship! " — the wild bee 
 is ringing; 
 
 Listen! tliat eloquent whisper, up- 
 springing. 
 Speaks to thy soul from out Na- 
 ture's great heart. 
 
 From the dark cloud flows the life- 
 giving shower; 
 
 From the rough sod blows the soft- 
 breathing flower; 
 
 From the small insect, the rich coral 
 bower; 
 Only man shrinks, in the plan, 
 from his part. 
 
 Labor is life! — 'Tis the still water 
 faileth ; 
 
 Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; 
 
 Keep the watch wound, for the dark 
 rust assailetli ! 
 Flowers droop and die in the still- 
 ness of noon. 
 
 Labor is glory! — the flying cloud 
 
 lightens ; 
 Only the waving wing changes and 
 
 brightens ; 
 Idle hearts only the dark future 
 
 frightens ; 
 Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou 
 
 keep them in tune! 
 
 Labor is rest, — from the sorrows that 
 
 greet us; 
 Rest from all petty vexations that 
 
 meet us, 
 Rest from sin-promptings that ever 
 
 entreat us. 
 Rest from world-sirens that lure us 
 
 to ill. 
 Work, — and pure slumbers shall 
 
 wait on thy pillow; 
 Work. — thou shalt ride over Care's 
 
 coming billow: 
 Lie not down wearied 'neatli Woe's 
 
 weeping-willow! 
 Work with a stout heart and reso- 
 lute will ! 
 
 Labor is health, — lo! the husband- 
 man reaping, 
 
 How through his veins goes the life- 
 current leaping ! 
 
 How his strong arm in his stalwart 
 pride sweeping. 
 True as a sunbeam the swift sickle 
 guides. 
 
 Labor is wealth, — in the sea the 
 pearl groweth : 
 
 Rich the queen's robe from the frail 
 cocoon floweth; 
 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest 
 bloweth ; 
 Temple and statue the marble 
 block hides. 
 
Droop not, though shame, sin, and 
 anguisli are round thee ! 
 
 Bravely tling off the cold chain that 
 iiatli bound thee ! 
 
 liOok to yon pure heaven sinihng be- 
 yond thee! 
 Rest not content in thy darkness, 
 — a clod! 
 
 Work — for some good, be it ever so 
 
 slowly; 
 Cherish some flower, be it ever so 
 
 lowly : 
 Labor ! — all labor is noble and 
 
 holy: 
 Let thy great deeds be thy prayer 
 
 to thy God. 
 
 Kate Putnam Osgood. 
 
 BEFORE THE PRIME. 
 
 You think you love me. Marguerite, 
 Because you find Love's fancy sweet; 
 So, zealously, you seek a sign 
 To prove your heart is wliolly mine. 
 
 Ah, were it so! But listen, dear! 
 Bethink you how, this very year, 
 AVi;h fond impatience you were fain 
 To watcli the earth grow green again; 
 
 When April's violets, here and there, 
 
 Surprised the imexpectant air, 
 
 You searched them out, and brought 
 
 me some. 
 To show, you said, tliat spring was 
 
 come. 
 
 But, sweetheart, when the lavish May 
 Rained flowers and fragrance round 
 
 your way. 
 You liad no thought her bloom to 
 
 bi'ing, 
 To prove the presence of the spring! 
 
 Believe me, when Love's April-time 
 Shall ripen to its perfect prime. 
 You will not need a sign to know 
 What every glance and breath will 
 sliow ! 
 
 DRIVIXG HOME THE COWS. 
 
 Oi'T of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
 He turned them Into the river lane ; 
 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 Then fastened the meadow -bars 
 again. 
 
 Lender the willows, and over the hill, 
 He patiently followed their sober 
 pace ; 
 The merry whistle for once was still. 
 And something shadowed the sun- 
 ny face. 
 
 Only a hoy! and his father had said 
 He never could let his youngest go : 
 
 Two already were lying (lead, 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling 
 foe. 
 
 But after the evening work Avas done. 
 And the frogs were loud in the 
 meadow-swamp, 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun. 
 And stealthily followed the foot- 
 path damp. 
 
 Across the clover, and through the 
 wheat. 
 With resolute heart and purpose 
 grim. 
 Though cold was the dew on his hur- 
 rying feet, I him. 
 And the blind bat's flitting startled 
 
 Thrice since then had the lanes been 
 white, 
 And tlie orchards sweet with apple- 
 bloom; 
 And now, when the cows came back 
 at night. 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely 
 farm 
 That three were lying where two 
 had lain; 
 
404 
 
 aSHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 And the old man's tremulous, pal- 
 sied arm 
 Could never lean on a son's again. 
 
 The simimer day grew cool and late. 
 
 He went for the cows when the 
 
 work was done; 
 
 l>ut down the lane, as he opened the 
 
 gate, 
 
 lie saw them coming one by one, — 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 Shaking their horns in the evening 
 wind ; 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the 
 grass, — hind ? 
 
 15ut who was it following close be- 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 
 And worn and pale, from the crisp- 
 ing hair, 
 Looked out a face that the father 
 knew. 
 
 For southern prisons will sometimes 
 yawn. 
 And yield their dead unto life 
 again ; 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy 
 dawn 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meet- 
 ing eyes ; 
 For the heart must speak when the 
 lips are dumb; 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 Together they followed the cattle 
 home. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. 
 
 I FOUNB a fellow-worker when I deemed I toiled alone : 
 
 My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone; 
 
 I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street; 
 
 And it seemed his toil was great and hard, while mine was great and sweet. 
 
 I said, " O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a worker too. 
 The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how is it with you ? 
 For while I toil, great tears of joy will sometimes fill my eyes. 
 And when I form my perfect work, it lives and never dies. 
 
 "I carve the marble of pure thought until the thought takes form, 
 Until it gleams before my soul and makes the world grow warm; 
 Until there comes the glorious voice and words that seem divine, 
 And the music reaches all men's hearts and draws them into mine. 
 
 " And yet for days it seems my heart shall blossom never more. 
 
 And the burden of my loneliness lies on me very sore: 
 
 Therefore, O hewer of the stones that pave base human ways. 
 
 How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days ?" 
 
 Then he replied: " Ere sunrise, when the pale lips of the day 
 Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray. 
 A great thousrht rose within me, how, while men asleep had lain. 
 The thousand labors of the world had grown up once again. 
 
 " The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, — 
 A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through. 
 I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began 
 With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man. 
 
" I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men, 
 
 The worker with the chisel and tlie worker witli the pen, — 
 
 The restless toilers after good, wlio sow and never reap. 
 
 And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep. 
 
 *• Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my imdaunted eyes 
 Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise 
 At sight of all those labors, and because that every one. 
 Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone. 
 
 " They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways. 
 Together we began to-day as on tlie other days: 
 1 felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the days wore through, 
 Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too. 
 
 " Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily 
 The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily, 
 That while they nobly held it as each man can do and bear. 
 It did not wholly fall my side as though no men were there. 
 
 " And so we toil together many a day from morn till night, 
 
 I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height; 
 
 For though the common stones are mine, and Lhey have lofty cares, 
 
 Their work begins where this leaves off, and mine is part of theirs. 
 
 " And 't is not wholly mine or theirs, I think of through the day, 
 But the great, eternal thing we make together, I and they; 
 Far in the sunset I behold a city that man owns. 
 Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of my common stones. 
 
 " Then noonward, as the task grows light with all the labor done, 
 The single thought of all the day becomes a joyous one; 
 For, rising in my heart at last where it has lain so long, 
 It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows almost a song. 
 
 " But when the evening comes, indeed, the words have taken wing, 
 The thought sings in me still, but I am all too tired to sing: 
 Therefore, O you my friend, who serve the world with minstrelsy. 
 Among our fellow-workers' songs make that one sons for me. 
 
 Rebecca S. Palfrey. 
 
 WHITE UNDERNEATH. 
 
 1a\T() a city street. 
 
 Narrow and noisome, chance had led 
 
 my feet; 
 Poisonous to every sense; and the 
 
 sun's rays 
 Loved not the unclean place. 
 
 It seemed that no pure thing 
 
 Its whiteness here would ever dare to 
 
 bring ; 
 Yet even into this dark place and 
 
 low, 
 God had sent down his snow. 
 
Here, too, a little child, 
 IStood by the drift, now blackened 
 and defiled; Iplay, 
 
 And with his i-osy hands, in earnest 
 Scraped the dark crust away. 
 
 Checking my hurried pace, 
 To watch the busy hands and earnest 
 face, |hght, 
 
 I heard liiin laugh aloud in pure de- 
 That underneath, 'twas white. 
 
 Then, through a broken pane, 
 
 A woman's voice summoned him in 
 
 again. 
 With softened mother-tones, that half 
 
 excused 
 The unclean words she used. 
 
 And as I lingered near. 
 
 His baby accents fell upon my ear: 
 
 '• See, I can make the snow again for 
 
 you. 
 All clean and white and new! " 
 
 Ah ! surely God knows best. 
 
 Our sight is short: faith trusts to Him 
 the rest. 
 
 Sometimes, we know. He gives to hu- 
 man hands 
 
 To work out His commands. 
 
 Perhaps He holds apart. 
 
 By baby fingers in that mother's heart. 
 
 One fair, clean spot that yet may 
 
 spread and grow. 
 Till all be white as snow. 
 
 Theodore Parker. 
 
 THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE 
 LIFE. 
 
 O THOU, great Friend to all the sons 
 of men, 
 Who once appeared in humblest 
 guise below. 
 Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's 
 chain. 
 And call Thy brethren forth from 
 want and woe, — 
 We look to thee! Thy truth is still the 
 Light 
 Which guides the nations, groping 
 on their way. 
 Stumbling and falling in disastrous 
 night. 
 Yet hoping ever for the perfect 
 day. 
 Yes; Thou art still the Life, Thou art 
 the way 
 The holiest known; Light, Life, 
 the Way of heaven! 
 And they who dearest hope and 
 deepest pray 
 Toil by the Light, Life, Way, 
 which Thou liast given. 
 
 THE HIGHER GOOD. 
 
 Father, I will not ask for wealth or 
 fame. 
 
 Though once they would have 
 joyed my carnal sense ; 
 
 I shudder not to bear a hated name, 
 
 Wanting all wealth, myself my sole 
 defence. 
 But give me. Lord, eyes to behold 
 the truth ; 
 
 A seeing sense that knows the 
 eternal right; 
 
 A heart with pity filled, and gen- 
 tlest ruth; 
 
 A manly faith that makes all dark- 
 ness light. [kind: 
 Give me the power to labor for man- 
 Make me the mouth of such as 
 cannot speak : 
 
 Eyes let me be to groping men. and 
 
 blind; [weak 
 
 A conscience to tlie base; and to the 
 
 Let me be hands and feet; and to 
 the foolish, mind: 
 
 And lead still further on such as 
 Thy kingdom seek. 
 
PARNELL. 
 
 4U7 
 
 Thomas Parnell. 
 
 in MX TO CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Lovely, lasting Peace of mind! 
 Sweet delight of human kind ! 
 Heavenly-horn, and hred on high, 
 To crown the, favorites of the sky 
 Witli more of happiness helow, 
 Than victors in a triumph know! 
 Whither, O whitlier art thou fled, 
 To lay thy meek, contented head ? 
 What happy region dost thou please 
 To make the seat of calms and ease '? 
 
 Amhition searches all its sphere 
 Of pomp and state, to meet thee there. 
 Increasing avarice would find 
 Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
 The hold adventurer ploughs his way 
 Through rocks amidst the foaming 
 
 sea 
 To gain thy love; and then perceives 
 Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
 The silent heart, which grief assails, 
 Treads soft and lonesome o'er the 
 
 vales. 
 Sees daisies open, rivers run. 
 And seeks (as I have vainly done) 
 >\ musing thought; but learns to know 
 That Solitude's the nurse of woe. 
 No real happiness is found 
 In trailing purple o'er the ground : 
 Or in a soul exalted high, 
 To range the circuit of the sky. 
 Converse with stars above, and know 
 All Nature in its forms below; 
 The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 
 And doubts at last for knowledge 
 rise. 
 Lovely, lasting Peace, appear! 
 This world itself, if thou art here. 
 Is once again with Eden blest. 
 And man contains it in his breast. 
 
 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
 I sung my wishes to the wood, 
 And, lost in thought, no more per- 
 ceived 
 The brandies wliisp(>r as they waved ; 
 
 It seemed as all the quiet place 
 Confessed the presence of her grace. 
 When thus she spoke — " Go rule thy 
 
 will. 
 Bid thy wild passions all be still. 
 Know God — and bring thy heart to 
 
 know 
 The joys which from religion flow: 
 Then every grace shall prove its guest. 
 And ril be there to crown the rest." 
 
 Oh! by yonder mossy seat, 
 In my hours of sweet retreat, 
 jNIight I thus my soul employ 
 With sense of gratitude and joy: 
 liaised as ancient prophets were, 
 In heavenly vision, praise, and 
 
 prayer ; 
 Pleasing all men, hurting none. 
 Pleased and blessed with God alone: 
 Then while the gardens take my 
 
 sight, 
 With all the colors of delight; 
 While silver waters glide along. 
 To please my ear, and court my song ; 
 I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, 
 And tliee, great Source of Nature, 
 
 sing. 
 The sun that walks his airy way. 
 To liglit the world, and give the day: 
 The moon that shines with borrowed 
 
 light; 
 The stars that gild the gloomy night; 
 The seas tliat roll imnundierecl waves; 
 The wood that spreads its sliady 
 
 leaves; 
 The field whose ears conceal the 
 
 grain. 
 The yellow treasure of the plain ; 
 All of these, and all I see, 
 Should be sung, and sung by me : 
 They speak their Maker as they can, 
 But want and ask the tongue of man. 
 Go search among your idle dreams. 
 Yom- Intsy or your vain extremes ; 
 And find a life of equal bliss. 
 Or own the next be^un in this. 
 
408 
 
 PARSONS. 
 
 Thomas William Parsons. 
 
 HUDSON niJEJ!. 
 
 EiVERS that roll most musical in song 
 Are often lovely to the mind alone : 
 
 The wanderer muses, as he moves along 
 Their barren banks, on glories not their own. 
 
 When, to give substance to his boyish dreams, 
 He leaves his own, far countries to survey. 
 
 Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams, 
 ''Their names alone are beautiful, not they." 
 
 If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour 
 A tide more meagre than his native Charles; 
 
 Or views the Hlione when summer's heat is o'er, 
 Subdued and stagnant in the fen of iVrles: 
 
 Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling 
 His sullen tribute at the feet of liome, 
 
 Oft to his thought must partial memory bring 
 Movo nol)le waves, witliout renown, at home. 
 
 Now let him climb the C'atskill, to behold 
 The lordly Hudson, marching to the main. 
 
 And say what bard, in any land of old. 
 Had such a river to inspire his strain. 
 
 Along the Rhine gray battlements and towers 
 Declare what robbers once the realm possessed; 
 
 But here Heaven's handiwork surpasseth ours. 
 And man has hardly more than built his nest. 
 
 No storied castle overawes these heights; 
 
 Nor antique arches clieck the current's play; 
 Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites 
 
 To dream of deities long passed away. 
 
 No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft 
 Of maible, yellowed by a thousand years. 
 
 Lifts a great landmark to the little craft, — 
 A summer cloud: that comes and disappears. 
 
 But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form 
 Since the subsiding of the deluge, rise 
 
 And hold their savins to the up]ier storm. 
 While far l)elow, the skiff securely plies. 
 
 Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men 
 Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil, 
 
 Spread o'er the plain, or scatter through the glen, 
 Bu'Otian plenty on a Spartan soil. 
 
PABSONS. 
 
 409 
 
 Then, where tlie reign of cultivation ends. 
 Again the charming wilderness begins : 
 
 From steep to steep one solemn wootl extends, 
 Till some new hamlet's rise, the boscage thins. 
 
 And these deep gi'oves forever have remained 
 
 Touched by no axe, — by no proud owner nursed; 
 
 As now they stand they stood when Tharaoh reigned, 
 Lineal descendants of creation's first. 
 
 No tales, we know, are chronicled of thee 
 In ancient scrolls ; no deeds of doubtful claim 
 
 Have hung a history on every tree, 
 
 And given each I'ock its fable and a fame. 
 
 But neither here hath any conqueror trod, 
 Nor grim invaders from barbarian climes; 
 
 No horrors feigned of giant or of god 
 Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes. 
 
 Here never yet have happy fields laid waste, 
 The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit, 
 
 The cottage ruined and the shrine defaced, 
 Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute. 
 
 "Yet, O Antifjuity I ■' the stranger sighs; 
 
 " Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view; 
 The soul's indifference dulls the sated eyes. 
 
 Where all is fair indeed, — but all is new.'" 
 
 False thought! is age to crumbling walls confined ? 
 
 To Grecian fiagments and Egyptian bones '.' 
 Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, 
 
 More than old fortresses and sculjitured stones '? 
 
 Call not this new which is the only land 
 Tliat wears unchanged the same primeval face 
 
 Which, when just dawning from its Makei-'s hand, 
 Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race. 
 
 Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth 
 
 Glide past green Eden towards the unknown south, 
 Than Hudson broke upon the infant earth. 
 
 And kissed the ocean with his nameless mouth. 
 
 Twin-born with .Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile! 
 
 Thebes and the pyramids to thee are young; 
 Oil ! had thy waters burst from Britain's isle. 
 
 Till now i)erchance they had not flowed unsung. 
 
410 
 
 PATMORE. 
 
 THE GROOMSMAN TO HIS 
 MISTliESS. 
 
 EvKRY wedding, says the proverb, 
 Makes another, soon or late; 
 
 Never yet was any marriage 
 Entered in the book of Fate, 
 
 But the names were also written 
 Of the patient jjair that wait. 
 
 Blessings then upon the morning 
 When my friend with fondest look. 
 
 By the solemn rites' permission, 
 To himself his mistress took, 
 
 And the Destinies recorded 
 Other two within their book. 
 
 While the priest fulfilled his office. 
 Still the ground the lovers eyed. 
 
 And the parents and the kinsmen 
 Aimed their glances at the bride; 
 
 But the groomsmen eyed the virgins 
 Who were waiting at her side. 
 
 Three there were that stood beside 
 her ; 
 One was dai-k, and one was fair; 
 
 But nor fair nor dark the other. 
 Save her Arab eyes and hair; 
 
 Neither dark nor fair. I call her, 
 Yet she was the fairest there. 
 
 While her groomsman — shall I own it? 
 
 Yes, to thee, and only thee — 
 Gazed upon this dark-eyed maiden 
 
 Who was fairest of the three. 
 Thus he thought: "How blest the 
 bridal 
 
 Where the bride were such as she I ' " 
 
 Then I mused upon the adage. 
 Till my wisdom was perplexed, 
 
 And 1 wondered, as the churchman 
 Dwelt upon his holy text, 
 
 Which of all who heard his lesson 
 Should refjuire the service next. 
 
 Whose will be the next occasion 
 For the flo\rcrs, the feast, the wine '? 
 
 Thine, ])erchance, my dearest lady ; 
 Or, who knows ? — it may be mine: 
 
 What if 't were — forgive the fancy — 
 What if 'twere both mine and 
 thine ? 
 
 Coventry Patmore. 
 
 [From The Betrothal.] 
 SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. 
 
 I GiiEW assured before I asked. 
 
 That she'd be mine without reserve, 
 And in her imclaimed graces basked 
 
 At leisure, till the time sliould 
 serve, — 
 With just (Miough of dread to thrill 
 
 The hope, and make it trebly dear; 
 Thus loath to si)eak the word, to kill 
 
 Either the hope or happy fear. 
 
 Till once, through lanes returning 
 late, 
 Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; 
 And ere we reached her father's gate. 
 We paused with one iiresentient 
 mind ; 
 And, in the dim and perfumed mist, 
 Their coming stayed; who blithe 
 and free, 
 
 And very women, loved to assist 
 A lover's opportunity. 
 
 Twice rose, twice died, my trembling 
 word ; 
 
 To faint and frail cathedral chimes 
 Spake time in music, and we heard 
 
 The chafers rustling in the limes. 
 Her dress, that touched me where I 
 stood ; 
 
 The warmth of her confided arm; 
 Her bosom's gentle neighborhood; 
 
 Her pleasure in her power to charm ; 
 
 Her look, her love, her form, her 
 touch ! 
 The least seemed most by blissful 
 tmn, — 
 Blissful but that it i.leased too 
 much, 
 And taught the wayward soul to 
 yearn. 
 
It was as if a harp with wires 
 Was traversed by tlie breath I drew ; 
 
 And oh, sweet meeting of desires ! 
 She, answering, owned tliat slie 
 loved too. 
 
 WOULD WISDOM FOR HERSELF 
 BE 'wooed. 
 
 Woui.D Wisdom for herself be wooed. 
 And wake the foolish from his 
 dream, 
 {She must be glad as well as good, 
 
 And must not only be, but seem. 
 Beauty and joy are hers by right; 
 
 And, knowing this, I wonder less 
 That she's so scorned, when falsely 
 dight 
 In misery and ugliness. 
 What's that which Heaven to man 
 endears. 
 And that which eyes no sooner see 
 
 Than the heart says, with floods of 
 tears, 
 
 "Ah! that's the thing which I 
 would be ? " 
 Not childhood, full of fears and frets : 
 
 Not youth, impatient to disown 
 Those visions high, which to forget 
 
 Were worse than never to have 
 known. 
 Not these; but souls foimd liere ami 
 here. 
 
 Oases in our waste of sin. 
 When everything is well and fair, 
 
 And God remits his discipline; 
 AVhose sweet subdual of the world 
 
 'I'he worldling scarce can recognize; 
 And ridicule, against it hurled. 
 
 Drops witli a broken sting and dies. 
 They live by law, not like the fool. 
 
 But like the bard who freely sings 
 In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule, 
 
 And linds in them not bonds but 
 
 James Gates Percival. 
 
 [From J'r()iiie.t/H'ai<, Part II.] 
 
 AI'OSTROPHE TO THE SUN. 
 
 (ENTiiE of light and energy ! thy way 
 Is through the unknown void; thou 
 
 hast thy throne, 
 Morning, and evening, and at noon 
 
 of day. 
 Far in the blue, untended and alone; 
 Ere the tirst-wakened airs of earth 
 
 had blown. 
 On thou didst march, triumphant in 
 
 thy light; 
 Then thou diilst send thy glance, 
 
 which still hath flown 
 Wide througli the never-ending 
 
 woi-lds of night. 
 And yet thy full orb bui-ns with flash 
 
 as keen and bright. 
 
 Thy path is high in Heaven; — we 
 
 cannot gaze 
 On the intense of light that girds thy 
 
 car ; 
 
 There is a crown of glory in thy rays. 
 Which bear thy pure divinity afar. 
 To mingle with the equal light of 
 
 star ; 
 For thou, so vast to us, art in the 
 
 whole 
 One of the sparks of night, that fire 
 
 the air, 
 i\.nd as around thy centre planets 
 
 roll. 
 So thou too hast thy path aroimd the 
 
 Central Soul. 
 
 Age o'er thee has no power; — thou 
 
 bring' st the same 
 Light to renew the morning, as when 
 
 first, [flame. 
 
 If not eternal, thou, with front of 
 On the dark face of earth in glory 
 
 burst. 
 And warmed the seas, and in their 
 
 bosom nursed 
 The earliest things of life, the worm 
 
 and shell ; 
 
412 
 
 PERCIVAL. 
 
 Till through the sinking ocean, moun- 
 tains pierced, 
 
 And then came fortli tlie land where- 
 on we dwell. 
 
 Reared like a magic fane above the 
 watery swell. 
 
 Thou lookest on the earth, and then 
 
 it smiles; 
 Thy light is hid, and all things droop 
 
 and mourn ; 
 Laughs the wide sea around her bud- 
 ding isles, 
 When through their heaven thy 
 
 changing car is borne ; 
 Thou wheel' St away thy flight, the 
 
 woods are shorn 
 Of all their waving locks, and storms 
 
 anake; 
 All, that was once so beautiful, is 
 
 torn 
 By the wild winds which plough the 
 
 lonely lake. 
 And in their maddening rush, the 
 
 crested mountains shake. 
 
 The earth lies buried in a shroud of 
 
 snow; 
 Life lingers, and would die, but thy 
 
 leturn 
 Gives to their gladdened hearts an 
 
 overflow 
 Of all the power that brooded in the 
 
 urn 
 Of their chilled frames, and then 
 
 they proudly spurn 
 All bands that would confine, and 
 
 give to air 
 Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, 
 
 till they burn. 
 When on a dewy morn thou dartest 
 
 there 
 Rich waves of gold to wreathe with 
 
 fairer light the fair. 
 
 Thine are the mountains, where they 
 
 purely lift 
 Snows that have never wasted, in a 
 
 sky 
 Which iiath no stain; below, the 
 
 storm may drift 
 Its darkness, and the thunder-gust 
 
 roar by ; 
 
 Aloft in thy eternal smile they lieautiful faces 
 And eyes of tropical dusk, — 
 
 And one face shining out like a star, 
 One face haunting the dreams of 
 each, 
 And one voice sweeter than others 
 are. 
 Breaking into silvery speech, — 
 
 Telling, through lips of bearded 
 bloom. 
 An old, old story over again. 
 As down the royai bannered room. 
 To the golden gittern's strain. 
 
 Two and two, they dreamily walk. 
 While an unseen spirit walks be- 
 side. 
 And, all unheard in the lovers' talk, 
 He claimeth one for a bride. 
 
 O Maud and Madge, dream on to- 
 gether. 
 With never a pang of jealous fear! 
 For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
 Shall whiten another year, 
 
 Eobed for the bridal, and robed foi- 
 the tomb. 
 Braided brown hair and golden 
 tress. 
 There '11 be only one of you left for 
 the bloom 
 Of the bearded lips to press, — 
 
 Only one for the bridal pearls. 
 
 The robe of satin and I3russels lace. 
 Only one to blush through her curls 
 At the sight of a lover's face. 
 
 O beautiful Madge, in your bridal 
 white. 
 For you the revel has just begun : 
 
PERRY. 
 
 415 
 
 But for her Avho sleeps in your arms 
 to-night 
 The revel of life is done ! 
 
 But, robed and crowned with your 
 saintly bliss, 
 Queen of heaven and bride of the 
 sun, 
 O beautiful Maud, you' 11 never miss 
 The kisses another hath won! 
 
 IN 
 
 ANTICIPATION. 
 
 " I'll take the orchard path,'' she 
 said. 
 Speaking lowly, smiling slowly : 
 The brook was dried within its bed. 
 The hot sun flung a flame of red 
 Low in the west as forth she sped. 
 
 Across the dried brook-course she 
 went, 
 Singing lowly, smiling slowly; 
 She scarcely felt the sun that spent 
 Its fiery force in swift descent. 
 She never saw the wheat was bent. 
 
 The grasses parched, the blossoms 
 dried ; 
 Singing lowly, smiling slowly. 
 Her eyes amidst the drouth espied 
 A summer pleasance far and wide. 
 With roses and sweet violets pied. 
 
 II. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 But homeward coming all the way. 
 
 Sighing lowly, pacing slowly. 
 She knew the bent wheat withering 
 
 lay. 
 She saw the blossoms' dry decay. 
 She missed the little brooklet's play. 
 
 A breeze had sprung from out the 
 
 south, 
 But, sighing lowly, pacing slowly. 
 She only felt the burning drouth; 
 Her eyes were hot and parched her 
 
 mouth. 
 Yet sweet the wind blew from the 
 
 south. 
 
 And when the wind brought welcome 
 rain. 
 Still sighing lowly, pacing slowly. 
 She never saw the lifting grain. 
 But only — a lone orchard lane. 
 Where she had waited all in vain. 
 
 TYTNG HER BONNET UNDER HER 
 CHIN. 
 
 Tying her bonnet under her chin, 
 She tied her raven ringlets in ; 
 But not alone in the silken snare 
 Did she catch her lovely floating hair, 
 For, tyingher bonnet under her chin. 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 They were strolling together up the 
 
 hill. 
 Where the wind comes blowing meriy 
 
 and chill ; 
 And it blew the ciu-ls a frolicsome 
 
 race. 
 All over her happy peach-colored 
 
 face. 
 Till, scolding and laughing, she tied 
 
 them in. 
 Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 
 
 And it blew a color, bright as the 
 
 bloom 
 Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing 
 
 plume. 
 All over the cheeks of the prettiest 
 
 girl 
 That ever imprisoned a romping ciu'l, 
 Or, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 Tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 Steeper and steeper grew the hill : 
 
 Madder, merrier, chillier still 
 
 The western wind blew down, and 
 
 played 
 The wildest tricks with the little 
 
 maid. 
 As, tying her bonnet under her chin. 
 She tied a young man's heart within. 
 
 O western wind, do you think it was 
 
 fair. 
 To play such tricks with her floating 
 
 hair? 
 
To gladly, gleefully do your best 
 
 To blow her against the young man's 
 breast, 
 
 Where he as gladly folded her in. 
 
 And kissed her mouth and her dim- 
 pled chin ? 
 
 Ah! Ellery Vane, you little thought. 
 An hour ago, when you besought 
 This country lass to walk with you, 
 After the sun had dried the dew, 
 What perilous danger you'd be in. 
 As she tied her bonnet under her 
 chin ! 
 
 SOME DAY OF DA I'.S'. 
 
 (Some day; some day of days, thread- 
 ing the street 
 With idle, heedless pace, 
 Unlooking for such grace, 
 I shall behold your face! 
 Some day, some day of days, thus 
 may we meet. 
 
 Perchance the sun may shine from 
 skies of May, 
 
 Or winter's icy chill 
 Touch whitely vale and hill. 
 What matter '> I shall thrill 
 Through every vein with summer on 
 that day. 
 
 Once more life's perfect youth will 
 all come back, 
 And for a moment there 
 I shall stand fresh and fair. 
 And drop the garment care ; 
 Once more my Y>erfect youth will 
 nothing lack. 
 
 I shut my eyes now, thinking how 
 'twin be,— 
 How face to face each soul 
 Will slip its long control. 
 Forget the dismal dole 
 
 Of dreary Fate's dark separating sea; 
 
 And glance to glance, and hand to 
 hand in greeting, 
 The past with all its fears. 
 Its silences and tears. 
 Its lonely, yearning years. 
 Shall vanish in the moment of that 
 meeting. 
 
 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 
 
 ALL THE RIVERS. 
 
 " All the rivers run into the sea." 
 Like the pulsing of a river. 
 The motion of a song. 
 Wind the olden words along 
 The tortuous turnings of my thoughts 
 whenever 
 
 I sit beside the sea. 
 
 " All the rivers run into the sea." 
 O you little leaping river 
 Laugh on beneath your breath ! 
 With a heart as deep as death. 
 Strong stream, go patient, grave, and 
 hasting never, — 
 I sit beside the sea. 
 
 " All the rivers run into the sea." 
 Why the passion of a river ? 
 The striving of a soul ? 
 
 Calm the eternal waters roll 
 Upon the eternal shore. At last, 
 whatever 
 
 Seeks it — finds the sea. 
 
 "All the rivers run into the sea.'' 
 O thou boiuiding, burning river, 
 Hurrying heart! I seem 
 To kiio\\" ( so one knows in a dream ) 
 That in the waiting heart of C4od 
 forever. 
 Thou too shall find the sea. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 A i>iLY rooted in a sacred soil. 
 Arrayed with those who neither spin 
 
 nor toil; 
 Dinah, the preacher, through the 
 
 purple air, 
 
PHELPS. 
 
 417 
 
 Forever, in her gentle evening prayer, 
 Shall plead for lier — what ear too 
 
 (leaf to hear ? — 
 "As if she spoke to some one very 
 
 near. ' ' 
 
 \i\A he of storied Florence, whose 
 
 great heart 
 Broke for its human error; wrapped 
 
 apart, | flame 
 
 And scorching in the swift, prophetic 
 Of passion for late holiness and 
 
 shame 
 Than untried glory grander, gladder, 
 
 higher — 
 Deathless, for her, he "testifies by 
 
 fire." 
 
 A statue, fair and firm, on marble 
 
 feet. 
 Womanhood's woman, Dorothea, 
 
 sweet 
 As strength, and strong as tender- 
 ness, to make 
 A "struggle with tlie dark" for 
 
 white light's sake, 
 Immortal stands, unanswered speaks. 
 
 >Sliall they, 
 Of her great hand the moulded, 
 
 breathing clay, 
 Her fit, select, and proud survivors 
 
 be ? — 
 Possess tlie life eternal, and not .s7k; ? 
 
 DESERTED NESTS. 
 
 I'd rather see an empty bough, — 
 A dreary, weary bough that himg 
 As boughs will hang within whose 
 
 arms 
 No mated birds had ever sung; 
 Far rather than to see or touch 
 The sadness of an empty nest 
 Where joy has been, but is not \\o\\\ 
 Where love has been, but is not blest. 
 
 There is no sadness in the world. 
 No other like it liere or there, — 
 The sadness of deserted homes 
 In nests, or hearts, or anywhere. 
 
 A LETTER. 
 
 Two things love can do, 
 
 Only two : 
 Can distrust, or can believe; 
 It can die, or it can live, 
 There is no syncope 
 Possible to love or me, 
 
 Go your ways ! 
 
 Two things you can do, 
 
 Only two : 
 Be the thing you used to be. 
 Or be notliing more to me. 
 I can but joy or grieve, 
 Can no more than die or live. 
 
 Go your ways ! 
 
 So far I wrote, my darling, drearily, 
 But now my sad pen falls down wear- 
 
 iiy 
 
 From out my trembling hand. 
 
 I did not, do not, cannot mean it, 
 
 dear ! 
 Come life or death, joy, grief, or 
 
 hope, or fear, 
 I bless you where I stand ! 
 
 I bless you where I stand, excusing 
 
 you. 
 No speech nor language for accusing 
 
 you 
 My laggard lips can learn. 
 
 To you — be what you are, or can, to 
 
 me, — 
 To you or blessedly or fatefully 
 My heart must turn ! 
 
418 
 
 PIATT. 
 
 John James Piatt. 
 
 liEADIXG THE MILESTOXE. 
 
 I STOPPED to read the milestone here, 
 A laggard school-boy, long ago; 
 
 I came not far — my home was near — 
 But ah, how far I longed to go! 
 
 Behold a number and a name, 
 x\. linger, westward, cut in stone: 
 
 The vision of a city came. 
 Across the dust and distance shown. 
 
 Around me lay the farms asleep 
 
 In hazes of autunmal air, 
 And sounds that quiet loves to keep 
 
 Were heard, and heard not, every- 
 where. 
 
 I read the milestone, day by day : 
 I yearned to cross the barren bound, 
 
 To know the golden Far-away, 
 To walk the new Enchanted 
 Ground ! 
 
 TWO PATRONS. 
 
 "What shall I sing?" I sighed, 
 and said, 
 " That men shall Icnow me when 
 my name 
 Is lost with kindred lips, and dead 
 Are laurels of familiar fame ? " 
 
 Below, a violet in the dew 
 
 Breathed through the dark its 
 vague perfume; 
 Above, a star in quiet blue 
 
 Touched with a gracious ray the 
 gloom. 
 
 "Sing, friend, of me," the violet 
 sighed, 
 " That I may haunt your grave 
 witlilove;" 
 "Sing, friend, of me," the star re- 
 plied, 
 " That I may light the dark above." 
 
 THE SIGHT OF ANGELS. 
 
 The angels come, the angels go. 
 Through oijeii doors of purer air; 
 
 Their moving presence oftentimes 
 we know, 
 It tlirills us everywhere. 
 
 Sometimes we see them ; lo ! at night. 
 Our eyes were shut, but opened 
 seem : 
 The darkness breathed a breath of 
 wondrous light, 
 And then it was a dream! 
 
 THE LOVE-LETTEU. 
 
 I GREET thee, loving letter — 
 Unopened, kiss thee free. 
 
 And dream her lips within thee 
 Give back the kiss to me ! 
 
 The fragrant little rose-leaf. 
 She sends by thee, is come : 
 
 Ah, in her heart was blooming 
 The rose she stole it from! 
 
 THE GOLDEN HAND. 
 
 Lo, from the city's heat and dust 
 A golden hand forever thrust. 
 Uplifting from a spire on high 
 A shining finger in the sky ! 
 
 I see it when the morning brings 
 Fresh tides of life to living things. 
 And the great world awakes: behold. 
 That lifted hand in morning gold ! 
 
 I see it when the noontide beats 
 Pulses of fire in busy streets ; 
 The dust flies in the flaming air: 
 Above, that quiet hand is there. 
 
 I see it when the twilight clings 
 
 To the dark earth with hovering 
 
 wings : 
 Flashing with the last fluttering ray, 
 That golden hand remembers day. 
 
 The midnight comes — the holy hour : 
 The city like a giant flower 
 Sleeps full of dew : that hand, in light 
 Of moon and stars, how weirdly 
 bright! 
 
PIATT. 
 
 419 
 
 Below, in many a noisy street 
 Are toiling hands and striving feet; 
 The weakest rise, the strongest fall : 
 That equal hand is over all. 
 
 Below, in courts to guard the land, 
 Gold buys the tongue and binds the 
 
 hand ; 
 Stealing in God's great scales the 
 
 gold ; 
 That awful hand, above, behold I 
 
 Below, the Sabbaths walk serene 
 With the great dust of days between; 
 Preachers within their pulpits stand : 
 See, over all, that heavenly hand I 
 
 But the hot dust, in crowded air 
 Below, arises never there: 
 O speech of one who cannot speak I 
 O Sabbath-witness of the Week ! 
 
 A SOXG OF CONTENT. 
 
 The eagle nestles near the sun ; 
 
 The dove's low nest for me! — 
 The eagle's on the crag: sweet one. 
 
 The dove's in our green tree. 
 For hearts that beat like thine and 
 mine. 
 
 Heaven blesses humble earth ; 
 The angels of our Heaven shall shine 
 
 The angels of our hearth ! 
 
 Sarah M. B. Piatt. 
 
 TO-DA Y. 
 
 Ah, real thing of bloom and breath, 
 I cannot love you while you stay; 
 
 Put on the dim, still charm of death. 
 Fade to a phantom, float away, 
 And let me call you Yesterday ! 
 
 Let empty flower-dust at my feet 
 Eemind me of the buds you wear; 
 
 Let the bird's quiet show liow sweet 
 The far-off singing made the air; 
 And let your dew through frost 
 look fair. 
 
 In mourning you I shall rejoice. 
 Go : for the bitter word may be 
 
 A music — in the vanished voice ; 
 And on the dead face I may see 
 How bright its frown has been to 
 me. 
 
 Then in the haunted grass I'll sit. 
 Half-tearful in your withered place. 
 
 And watch your lovely shadow flit 
 Across To-morrow's simny face. 
 And vex her with your perfect 
 grace. 
 
 So, real thing of bloom and breath. 
 I weary of you while you stay. 
 
 Put on tiie dim, still charm of death. 
 Fade to a phantom, float away. 
 And let me call you Yesterday ! 
 
 LAST WORDS. 
 
 Good-night, . pretty sleepers of 
 mine — 
 
 I never shall see you again : 
 Ah, never in shadow or shine ; 
 
 Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 
 
 In your small dreaming-dresses of 
 white. 
 With the wild-bloom you gathered 
 to-day 
 In your quiet shut hands, from the 
 light 
 And the dark, you will wander 
 away. 
 
 Though no graves in the bee-haunted 
 grass. 
 And no love in the beautiful sky. 
 Shall take you as yet, you will 
 pass. 
 With this kiss through these teai- 
 di-ops. Good-by ! 
 
 With less gold and more gloom in 
 their hair. 
 When the buds near have faded to 
 flowers. 
 Three faces may wake here as fair — 
 But older than yours are, by 
 hoiu's ! 
 
420 
 
 PI A IT. 
 
 Good-night, then, lost darlings of 
 mine — 
 
 I never shall see yon again : 
 Ah, never in shadow nor shine; 
 
 Ah, never in dew nor in rain ! 
 
 A DREAM'S A WAKENIXG. 
 
 Shut in a close and dreary sleep, 
 Lonely and frightened and op- 
 pressed 
 I felt a dreadful serpent creep, 
 
 Writhing and crushing o'er my 
 breast. 
 
 I woke and knew" my chikUs sweet 
 
 arm, 
 
 As soft and pure as flakes of snow. 
 
 Beneath my dream's dark, hateful 
 
 charm, 
 
 Had been the thing that tortured so. 
 
 And in the morning's dew and light 
 
 I seemed to hear an angel say, 
 " The Pain that stings in Time's low 
 night 
 3Iav prove God's Love in higher 
 \lay." 
 
 THAT NEW WORLD. 
 
 How gracious we are to grant to the 
 dead 
 Those wide, vague lands in the 
 foreign sky. 
 Reserving this world for ourselves 
 instead — 
 For we must live, though others 
 must die! 
 
 And what is this world that we keep, 
 
 I pray ? 
 
 True, it has glimpses of dews and 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 Then Youth and Love are here and 
 
 away, [ours. 
 
 Like mated birds — but nothing is 
 
 Ah, nothing indeed, but we cling to 
 it all."^ 
 It is nothing to hear one's own 
 heart beat, 
 
 It is nothing to see one's own tears 
 fall; 
 Yet surely the breath of our life is 
 sweet. 
 
 Yes, the breath of our life is so 
 sweet, 1 fear 
 We were loath to give it for all we 
 know 
 Of that charmed country we hold so 
 dear, 
 Far into whose beauty the breath- 
 less go. 
 
 Yet certain we are, when we see 
 them fade 
 Out of the pleasant light of the 
 sun. 
 Of the sands of gold in the palm- 
 leaf's shade. 
 And the sti'ange high jewels all 
 these have won. 
 
 You dare not doubt it, O soul of 
 mine! 
 And yet if these empty eyes could 
 see 
 One, only one, from that voyage di- 
 vine. 
 With something, anything sure for 
 me! 
 
 Ah, blow me the scent of one lily, to 
 tell 
 That it grew outside of this world 
 at most ; 
 Ah, show me a plume to touch, or a 
 shell 
 That whispers of some miearthly 
 coast ! 
 
 MAKING PEACE. 
 
 After this feud of yours and mine 
 
 The sun will shine; 
 After we both forget, forget, 
 
 The sun will set. 
 
 I pray you think how warm and 
 sweet 
 
 The heart can beat; 
 I pray you think how soon the rose 
 
 From grave-dust grows. 
 
PIATT. 
 
 421 
 
 CALLING THE DEAD. 
 
 Mv little child, so sweet a voice 
 
 might wake 
 
 So sweet a sleeper for so sweet a 
 
 sake. [you, 
 Calling your buried brother back to 
 
 You laugh and listen — till I listen 
 
 too! 
 
 Why does he listen ? It may be to 
 
 hear 
 Sounds too divine to reach my 
 
 troubled eai-. 
 \Vhy does he laugh '? It may be lie 
 
 can see 
 The face that only tears can hide 
 
 from me. 
 
 Poor baby faith — so foolish or so 
 wise : 
 
 The name I shape out of forlornest 
 cries 
 
 He speaks as with a bird's or blos- 
 som's breath. 
 
 How fair the knowledge is that 
 knows not Death ! 
 
 Ah, fools and blind — through all the 
 
 piteous years 
 Searchers of stars and graves — how 
 
 many seers, 
 Calling the dead, and seeking for a 
 
 sign, 
 Have laughed and listened, like this 
 
 child of mine ? 
 
 THE FLOWERS IN THE GROUND. 
 
 Under the cofhn-lid there are roses: 
 They bud like dreams in the sleep 
 of the dead ; 
 And the long, vague dark that around 
 them closes 
 Is flushed and sweet with their 
 glory of red. 
 
 From the buried seeds of love they 
 blossom, 
 All crimson-stained from its blood 
 they start; 
 And each sleeper wears them on his 
 bosom, 
 Clasped over the pallid dust of his 
 heart. 
 
 When the Angel of Morning shall 
 shake the slumber 
 Away from the graves with his 
 lighted wings, 
 He will gather those roses, an infi- 
 nite number, 
 And bear them to Heaven, the 
 beautiful things! 
 
 ASKING FOR TEARS. 
 
 On, let me come to Thee in this wild 
 
 way, 
 Fierce with a grief that will not 
 
 sleep, to pray 
 Of all thy treasures, Father, only 
 
 one, 
 After which I may say — Thy will be 
 
 done. 
 
 Nay, fear not thou to make my time 
 
 too sweet; 
 I nurse a Sorrow, — kiss its hands 
 
 and feet, 
 Call it all piteous, precious names. 
 
 and try, 
 Awake at night, to hush its helpless 
 
 cry. 
 
 The sand is at my moaning lip, the 
 
 glare 
 Of the uplifted desert fills the air; 
 My eyes are blind and burning, and 
 
 the years 
 Stretch on before me. Therefore, 
 
 give me tears ! 
 
422 
 
 PIEBPOXT. 
 
 John Pierpont. 
 
 THE PILGRIM FA THE US. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers — where are 
 tliey ? 
 Tlie A\'aves that brought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their 
 spray, 
 xVs they break along the shore ; 
 Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that 
 day, 
 When the Mayflower moored below, 
 When the sea around was black with 
 storms. 
 And white the shore Avith snow. 
 
 The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's 
 sleep. 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 And the rocks yet keep their watch by 
 the deep, 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 But the snow-white sail, that he gave 
 to the gale, 
 When the heavens looked dark, is 
 gone ; — 
 As an angel's wing, through an open- 
 ing cloud. 
 Is seen and then witlidrawn. 
 
 The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! — 
 
 The hill, Avhose icy brow 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morn- 
 ing's tiame, 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay 
 that night 
 On the hill-side and the sea. 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless 
 head ; — 
 But the Pilgrim — where is he ? 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: 
 
 AVhen summer is throned on high, 
 And the world's warm breast is in 
 verdure dressed. 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
 The earliest ray of the golden day. 
 
 On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the 
 world. 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light; 
 And it watches the bed of the glo- 
 rious dead, 
 AVith the holy stars by night. 
 It watches the bed of the brave who 
 have bled. 
 And shall guard this ice-bound 
 shore. 
 Till the waves of the bay, where the 
 Mayflower lay. 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 MY CHILI). 
 
 I CANNOT make him dead ! 
 His fair sunshiny head 
 Is ever bomidiug round my study 
 chair; 
 Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
 Witli tears, I turn to him, 
 The vision vanishes — he is not 
 there. 
 
 I walk my parlor floor, 
 
 And, through the open door, 
 I hear a footfairon the chamber stair, 
 
 I' m stepping toward the hall. 
 
 To give the boy a call ; 
 And then bethink me that — he is 
 not there: 
 
 I thread the crowded street, 
 A satchelled lad I meet, 
 With the same beaming eyes and col- 
 ored hair: 
 And, as he 's running by. 
 Follow him Mith my eye. 
 Scarcely believing that — he is not 
 there ! 
 
 I know his face is hid 
 Under the coffin lid : 
 Closed are his eyes : cold is his fore- 
 head fair ; 
 My hand that marble felt: 
 O'er it in prayer I knelt 
 Yet my heart whispers that — he is 
 not there. 
 
I cannot make him dead ! 
 When passing by the bed, 
 So long watched over with parental 
 care, 
 My spirit and my eye 
 Seek him inquiringly, 
 ]3efore the thought comes that — he 
 is not there ! 
 
 When, at the cool, gray break 
 Of day, from sleep 1 wake. 
 With my first breathing of the morn- 
 ing air, 
 My soul goes up, with joy. 
 To II im who gave my i3oy; 
 Then comes the sad thought that — 
 he is not there ! 
 
 When at the day's calm close. 
 
 Before we seek repose, [prayer, 
 I'm with his mothei', offering up our 
 
 Whate'er I may be saying. 
 
 I am in spirit praying 
 For our boy's spirit, though — he is 
 not there ! 
 
 Not there ! — Where then is he ? 
 The form I used to see 
 Was but the raiment that he used to 
 wear. 
 The grave, that now doth press 
 Upon that cast-off dress, 
 Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is 
 not there ! 
 
 He lives ! — In all the past 
 
 He lives ; nor, to the last. 
 Of seeing him again will I despair; 
 
 In dreams 1 see him now ; 
 
 And, on his angel ))row, 
 I see it written, " Thou shalt see me 
 there! " 
 
 Yes, we all live to God ! 
 Fathek, thy chastening rod 
 .So help us, thine afflicted ones, to 
 bear, 
 That, in the spirit-land. 
 Meeting at thy right hand, 
 ' T will be our heaven to find that — 
 lie is there ! 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 ANXABEL LEE. 
 
 It was many and many a year ago. 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea. 
 That a maiden there lived whom you 
 may know 
 By the name of Annabel Lee; 
 And this maiden she lived with no 
 other thought 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
 / was a child and (^he was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea: 
 But we loved with a love that Avas 
 more than love — 
 I and my Annabel Lee; 
 With a love that the winged seraphs 
 of lieaven 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long 
 ago, 
 In the kingdom by the sea. 
 
 A wind blew out of the cloud, chilling 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 
 So that her highborn kinsmen came 
 And bore her away from me. 
 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels, not half so happy in 
 heaven. 
 Went envying her and me — 
 Yes! — that was the reason (as all 
 men know. 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud 
 by night, 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel 
 Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far 
 than the love 
 Of those that were older than we — 
 Of many far wiser than we — 
 And neither the angels in heaven 
 above, 
 
424 
 
 POE. 
 
 Nor the demons down under the 
 
 sea. 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the 
 
 soul 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
 For the moon never beams, -without 
 bringing me dreams 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And the stars never rise, but I feel 
 the bright eyes 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down 
 
 by the side 
 Of my darling — my darling — my 
 life and my bride. 
 In her sepulchre there by the sea. 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells ! 
 What a world of merriment their mel- 
 ody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 
 In the icy air of night! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 With a crystalline delight; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Kunic I'hyme, 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musi- 
 cally wells 
 From tlie bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling 
 of the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow Avedding bells. 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their har- 
 mony foretells ! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight I 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune. 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the tmtle-dove that listens, 
 while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells. 
 What a gush of euphony volumi- 
 noiislv wells! 
 
 • How it swells I 
 
 How it dwells 
 
 On the future! how it tells 
 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of 
 the bells! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their tur- 
 bulency tells! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mer- 
 cy of the tire. 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf 
 and frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
 With a desperate desire. 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Now — now to sit or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of despair! 
 How they clang, and clash, and 
 
 roar ! 
 ■\Vliat a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating 
 air! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows. 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging. 
 How the danger ebbs and flows; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells. 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling. 
 How the danger sinks and swells. 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the 
 anger of the bells — 
 Of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 In the clamor and the clangor of 
 the bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells! 
 
POE. 
 
 425 
 
 What a world of solemn thought their 
 monody compels! 
 In the silence of the night, 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their 
 tone ! 
 For every sound tliat floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 
 All alone. 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffleil monotone. 
 Feel a glory in their rolling 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human ; 
 They are ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls 
 A pa^an from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 AVith the pjean of the bells ! 
 And he dances, and he yells: 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the pasan of the bells — 
 Of the bells: 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells," bells — 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 As he knells, knells, khells. 
 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells — 
 Of tlie bells, bells, bells, 
 To the tolling of the bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
 Bells, bells, bells — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of 
 the bells. 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 Because I feel that, in the heavens 
 above. 
 The angels, whispering to one 
 another. 
 Can find, among their bm-ning terms 
 of love. 
 None so devotional as that of 
 " Mother," 
 Therefore by that dear name I long 
 have called you — 
 You who are more than mother 
 unto me. 
 And fill my heart of hearts, where 
 death installed you 
 In setting my Virginia's spirit free. 
 My mother — my own mother, who 
 died early, [you 
 
 AVas but the mother of myself; but 
 Are mother to tlie one I loved so 
 dearly. 
 And thus are dearer than the 
 mother I knew 
 By that infinity with which my wife 
 Was dearer to my soul than its soul- 
 life. 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 Once tipon a midnight dreaiy, while I pondered, weak and weary 
 Over many a quaintand curious volume of forgotten lore — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
 "Tis some visitor," t muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — 
 
 Only this and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost \ipon the floor. 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow foi- the lost Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 
 Nameless here for ever more. 
 
426 
 
 POE. 
 
 And the silken, sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
 JSo that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
 " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; 
 
 This it is and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
 "Sir," said I, " or Madam, tridy your forgiveness I implore; 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. 
 That I scarce was sure 1 heard you " — here I opened wide the door; — 
 
 Darkness there and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no inortal ever tlared to dream before ; 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word " Lenore ?' 
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word " Lenore! " — 
 
 Merely this and nothing more. 
 
 Back into the chaml>er turning, all my soul within me burning, 
 Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
 " Surely," said I, " surely tliat is something at my window lattice; 
 Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
 J.et my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ; — 
 
 'Tis the wind and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling. 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art siu-e no craven, 
 
 Ghastly, grim and ancient Kaven, wandering from the Nightly shore — 
 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian "shore! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
 Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he fluttered — 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered " Other friends have flown before — 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 
 
 Then the bird said "Nevermore." 
 
startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store 
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — 
 Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore 
 
 Of ' Never — nevermore.' " 
 
 But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 
 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door; 
 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking "Nevermore." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, 
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er. 
 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore! 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 
 
 Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 
 "Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath 
 
 sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! 
 Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet! " said I, " thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! 
 
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. 
 
 Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
 
 On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 
 
 Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore!" 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil! 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 
 
 Quoth tiie Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — 
 " (iet thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. 
 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor. 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
428 POLLOK. 
 
 Robert 
 
 POLLOK. 
 
 [From The Course of Time.] 
 
 Then turned, and with the grass- 
 
 LORD BY HON. 
 
 hopper, who sung 
 His evening song beneath his feet. 
 
 He touched his harp, and nations 
 
 conversed. 
 
 heard, entranced. 
 
 Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds. 
 
 As some vast river of unfailing 
 
 his sisters were ; 
 
 source, 
 
 Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and 
 
 liapid, exhaustless, deep, his num- 
 
 winds, and storms. 
 
 bers flowed. 
 
 His brothers, younger brothers, whom 
 
 And oped new fountains in the hu- 
 
 he scarce 
 
 man heart. 
 
 As equals deemed. All passions of 
 
 AVliere Fancy halted, weary in her 
 
 all men. 
 
 flight, 
 
 The wild and tame, the gentle and 
 
 In other men, his, fresli as morning. 
 
 severe ; 
 
 rose 
 
 All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and 
 
 And soared untrodden heights, and 
 
 profane ; 
 
 seemed at home. 
 
 All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eter- 
 
 Wliere angels basliful looked. Oth- 
 
 nity; 
 
 ers, thougli great 
 
 All that was hated, all too, that was 
 
 Beneath their argument seemed 
 
 dear ; 
 
 struggling wliiles; 
 
 All that was hoped, all that was 
 
 He from above descending stooped to 
 
 feared, by man; 
 
 touch 
 
 He tossed about, as tempest-with- 
 
 Tlie loftiest thought; and proudly 
 
 ered leaves. 
 
 stooped, as though 
 
 Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck 
 
 It scarce deserved his verse. With 
 
 he macle. 
 
 Nature's self 
 
 With terror now he froze the cower- 
 
 He seemed an olil acquaintance, free 
 
 ing blood, 
 
 to jest 
 
 And now dissolved the heart in ten- 
 
 At will with all her glorious majesty. 
 
 derness ; 
 
 He laid his hand upon " the Ocean's 
 
 Yet would not tremble, would not 
 
 mane." 
 
 weep himself ; 
 
 And played familiar with his hoary 
 
 But back into his soul retired. 
 
 locks ; [ennines. 
 
 alone. 
 
 Stood on the Alps, stood on the Ap- 
 
 Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contempt- 
 
 And witli the thunder talked, as 
 
 uously 
 
 friend to friend ; 
 
 On hearts and passions prostrate at 
 
 And wove his garland of the light- 
 
 his feet. 
 
 ning's wing. 
 
 So Ocean from the plains his waves 
 
 In sportive twist, the lightning's 
 
 had late 
 
 fiery wing, 
 
 To desolation swept, retired in 
 
 Which, as tlie footsteps of the dread- 
 
 pride. 
 
 ful God, 
 
 Exulting in the glory of his might. 
 
 Marching upon the storm in ven- 
 
 And seemed to mock the ruin he had 
 
 geance, seemed; 
 
 wrought. 
 
POPE. 
 
 429 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 FROM ''ELOISA TO ABELAJH)." 
 
 In these deep solitudes and awful 
 cells. 
 
 Where heavenly-pensive Contempla- 
 tion dwells, 
 
 And ever-musing melancholy reigns; 
 
 Wliat means this tumult in a vestal's 
 veins '? 
 
 Why rove my thoughts beyond this 
 last retreat ? 
 
 Why feels my heart its long-forgot- 
 ten heat ? 
 
 Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it 
 came, 
 
 And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. 
 Dear fatal name ! rest ever unre- 
 vealed. 
 
 Nor pass these lips, in holy silence 
 sealed : [disguise. 
 
 Hide it, my heart, within that close 
 
 Where, mixed with God's, his loved 
 idea lies : 
 
 write it not, my hand — the name 
 
 appears [tears ! 
 
 Already written — wash it out, my 
 In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays. 
 Her heart still dictates, and lier hand 
 
 obeys. 
 Relentless walls! whose darksome 
 
 round contains 
 Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains : 
 Ye rugged rocks, which holy knees 
 
 liave worn: 
 Ye grots and caverns shagged with 
 
 horrid thorn ! 
 Shrines ! wliere their vigils pale-eyed 
 
 virgins keep. 
 And pitying saints, whose statues 
 
 learn to weep ! 
 Though cold like you, unmoved and 
 
 silent grown, 
 
 1 have not yet forgot myself to stone. 
 All is not Heaven's while Abelard 
 
 has part, 
 Still rebel nature holds out half my 
 
 heart ; 
 Nor prayers nor fasts its stubborn 
 
 pulse restrain, [vain. 
 
 Nor tears for ages taught to flow in 
 
 Soon as thy letters trembling I un- 
 close, 
 That well-known name awakens all 
 
 my woes. 
 Oh, name, for ever sad! for ever 
 
 dear ! 
 Still breatlied in sighs, still ushered 
 
 with a tear. 
 I tremble, too, whene'er my own 1 
 
 find; 
 Some dire misfortune follows close 
 
 behind. 
 Line after line my gusliing eyes o'er- 
 
 flow, 
 Led through a sad variety of woe : 
 Now warm in love, now withering in 
 
 my bloom. 
 Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! 
 There stern religion quenched the 
 
 unwilling flame. 
 There died the best of passions, love 
 
 and fame. 
 Yet write, oh ! write me all, that 1 
 
 may join 
 Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs 
 
 to thine. 
 Nor foes nor fortune take this power 
 
 away ; 
 And is my Abelard less kind than 
 
 they ? 
 Tears still are mine, and those I need 
 
 not spare. 
 Love but demands what else were 
 
 shed in prayer; 
 No happier task these faded eyes 
 
 pursue ; 
 To read and weep is all they now can 
 
 do. 
 Then share thy pain, allow that 
 
 sad relief; 
 Ah, more tlian share it! give me all 
 
 thy grief. 
 Heaven first tauglit letters for some 
 
 wretch's aid. 
 Some banished lover, or some cap- 
 tive maid; 
 They live, they speak, they breathe 
 
 what love inspires. 
 Warm from the soul, and faithful to 
 
 its Hres, 
 
430 
 
 POPE. 
 
 The virgin's wisli without hei' fears 
 
 impart, 
 Excuse tlie blusli, and pour out all 
 
 the heart, 
 Speed the soft intercourse from soul 
 
 to soul, 
 And waft a sigh from Indus to the 
 
 Pole. 
 
 [From An Essay on Man.^ 
 MAN. 
 
 Kkow then thyself, presume not 
 
 God to scan, 
 The proper study of mankind is Man. 
 Placed on this isthmus of a middle 
 
 state, 
 A being darkly wise, and rudely 
 
 great ; 
 With too much knowledge for the 
 
 sceptic side, 
 With too much weakness for the sto- 
 ic's pride. 
 He hangs between; in doubt to act or 
 
 rest ; 
 In doubt to deem himself a god, or 
 
 beast ; 
 In doubt his mind or body to prefer; 
 Born but to die, and reasoning but 
 
 to err; 
 Alike in ignorance, his reason such. 
 Whether he thinks too little, or too 
 
 much ; 
 Chaos of thought and passion, all 
 
 confused 
 Still by himself abused, or disabused; 
 Created half to rise, and half to fall ; 
 Great lord of all things, yet a prey to 
 
 all; 
 Sole judge of truth, in endless error 
 
 hurled : 
 The glory, jest, and riddle of the 
 
 world ! 
 
 [From An Essay on Man.] 
 
 .'iUBMISSIOX rO SUPREME WIS- 
 DOM. 
 
 What if the foot, ordained the 
 dust to tread. 
 Or hand, to toil, aspired to be the 
 head ? 
 
 AVhat if the head, the eye, or ear re- 
 pined 
 To serve mere engines to the ruling 
 
 mind ? 
 Just as absurd for any part to claim 
 To be another, in this general frame: 
 Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks 
 
 or pains. 
 The great directing Mind of All 
 
 ordains. 
 All are but parts of one stupendous 
 
 whole, 
 Whose body nature is, and God the 
 
 soul ; 
 That, changed through all, and yet 
 
 in all the same, 
 Great in the earth, as in the ethereal 
 
 frame, [breeze, 
 
 Warms in the sun, refreshes in the 
 Glows ill the stars, and blossoms in 
 
 the trees; 
 Lives through all life, extends 
 
 through ail extent, 
 Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; 
 Breathes in our soul, informs our 
 
 mortal part. 
 As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; 
 As full, as perfect, in vile man that 
 
 mourns. 
 As the rapt seraph, that adores and 
 
 burns ; 
 To Him no high, no low, no great, 
 
 no small ; 
 He fills. He bounds, connects, and 
 
 ecjuals all. 
 Cease then, nor order imperfec- 
 tion name: 
 (3ur proper bliss depends on what we 
 
 blame. 
 Know thy own point: this kind, this 
 
 due degree 
 Of blindness, weakness. Heaven be- 
 stows on thee. 
 Submit. — In this, or any other 
 
 sphere. 
 Secure to be as blest as thou canst 
 
 bear : 
 Safe in the hand of one disposing 
 
 power. 
 Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
 All nature is but art, unknown to 
 
 thee ; 
 All chance, direction, which thou 
 
 canst not see ; 
 
POPE. 
 
 431 
 
 All discord, harmony not understood; 
 All partial evil, universal good: 
 And, spite of pride, in erring reason's 
 
 spite, 
 One truth is clear, Whatever is, is 
 
 riijht. 
 
 [From Ah Essay on Man.] 
 
 CHARITY, GRADUALLY PERVA- 
 SIVE. 
 
 (iOD loves from whole to parts; 
 
 but human soul 
 Must rise from individual to the 
 
 whole. 
 Self-love but serves the virtuous 
 
 mind to wake. 
 As the small pebble stirs the peaceful 
 
 lake ; 
 The centre moved, a circle straight 
 
 succeeds. 
 Another still, and still another 
 
 spreads ; 
 Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will 
 
 embrace ; 
 His country next, and next all human 
 
 race ; 
 Wide, and more wide, the o'ei'flow- 
 
 ings of the mind 
 Take every creature in, of every 
 
 kind ; 
 Earth smiles around, with boundless 
 
 bounty blest, 
 And heaven beholds its image in his 
 
 breast. 
 
 [From An Essay on Man.] 
 TRUE NOBILITY. 
 
 Honor and shame from no condi- 
 tion rise ; 
 
 Act well your part, there all the 
 honor lies. 
 
 Fortune in men has some small dif- 
 ference made. 
 
 One flaunts in rags, one flutters in 
 brocade ; 
 
 The cobbler aproned, and the parson 
 gowned, 
 
 Hie friar hooded, and the monarch 
 crowned. 
 
 ''What differ more (you cry) than 
 
 crown and cowl! " 
 I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and 
 
 a fool. 
 You'll find, if once the monarch acts 
 
 the monk, 
 Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be 
 
 drunk, 
 Worth makes the man, and want of 
 
 it the fellow; 
 The rest is all but leather or prunello. 
 
 \_From An Essay on Man.] 
 
 VIRTUE. THE SOLE UNFAILING 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 Know then this truth (enough for 
 
 man to know ) , 
 " Virtue alone is happiness below." 
 The only point where human bliss 
 
 stands still. 
 And tastes the good without the fall 
 
 to ill; [ceives, 
 
 AVliere only merit constant pay re- 
 Is blest in what it takes, and what it 
 
 gives ; 
 The joy unequalled, if its end it gain, 
 And if it lose, attended with no jjain: 
 Without satiety, though e'er so blest, 
 And but more relished as the more 
 
 distressed : 
 The broadest mirth, unfeeling Folly 
 
 wears, [tears: 
 
 Less pleasing far than Virtue's very 
 Good, from each object, from each 
 
 place acquired. 
 For ever exercised, yet never tired : 
 Never elated, while one man's op- 
 pressed ; 
 Never dejected, while another's 
 
 blessed ; 
 And where no wants, no wishes can 
 
 remain, 
 Since but to wish more virtue, is to 
 
 gain. 
 See the sole bliss. Heaven could on 
 
 all bestow I 
 Which who but feels can taste, but 
 
 thinks can know: 
 Yet poor with fortune, and with 
 
 learning blind. 
 The bad must miss; the good, un- 
 taught, will find; 
 
■132 
 
 POPE. 
 
 Slave to no sect, who takes no private 
 
 road, 
 Bnt looks throngli nature up to na- 
 ture's God; 
 Pursues that chain which links the 
 
 immense design, 
 Joins heaven and earth, and mortal 
 
 and divine; 
 Sees that no being any bliss can 
 
 know. 
 But touches some above, and some 
 
 below; 
 Learns from this union of tlie rising 
 
 whole, 
 The first, last purpose of the human 
 
 soul ; 
 And knows where faith, law, morals, 
 
 all began, 
 All end, in love of God and love of 
 
 man. 
 
 [From An Essay on CrUieism.'] 
 TRUTH TO NATURE. 
 
 FiusT follow Nature, and yoiu" judg- 
 ment frame 
 
 By her just standard, which is still 
 the same ; 
 
 Unerring Nature, still divinely bright. 
 
 One clear, unchanged, and universal 
 light. 
 
 Life, force, and beauty, must to all 
 impart. 
 
 At once the source, and end, and 
 test of art. 
 
 \_From An Essay on CrUieism.] 
 JUST JUDGMENT. 
 
 Whoever thinks a faultless piece 
 to see, 
 
 Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor 
 e'er shall be. 
 
 In every work regard the writer's 
 end. 
 
 Since none can compass more than 
 they intend; 
 
 And if the means be just, the con- 
 duct true. 
 
 Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is 
 due. 
 
 As men of breeding, sometimes men 
 
 of wit. 
 To avoid great errors, must the less 
 
 commit; 
 Neglect the rules each verbal critic 
 
 lays, 
 For not to know some trifles is a 
 
 praise. 
 
 [From An Essay on Crificism.] 
 JFIT. 
 
 TiiUE wit is nature to advantage 
 
 dressed ; 
 What oft was thought, but ne'er so 
 
 well expressed: 
 Something, whose truth, convinced 
 
 at sight we find, 
 That gives us back the image of our 
 
 mind. 
 As shades more sweetly reconnnend 
 
 the light. 
 So modest plainness sets off sprightly 
 
 wit. 
 For works may have more wit than 
 
 does them good. 
 As bodies perish through excess of 
 
 blood. 
 
 [From An Essay on Criticism.] 
 EXCESSIVE PRAISE OR BLAME. 
 
 Avoid extremes; and shun the 
 
 fault of such 
 Who still are pleased too little or too 
 
 much. 
 At every trifle scorn to take offence. 
 That always shows great pride or 
 
 little sense: 
 Those heads, as stomachs, are not 
 
 sure the best 
 Which nauseate all, and nothing can 
 
 digest. 
 Yet let not each gay turn tliy rapture 
 
 move : 
 For fools admire, but men of sense 
 
 approve : 
 As things seem large which we 
 
 through mist descry, 
 Dulness is ever apt to magnify. 
 
PBESCOTT. 
 
 433 
 
 THE UyiVEliSAL PRAYER. 
 
 Father of all! in every age, 
 
 In every clime adored, 
 By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 
 
 Thou great First Cause, least under- 
 stood, 
 
 Who all my sense confined 
 To know but this, that Thou art good. 
 
 And that myself am blind; 
 
 Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 
 
 To see the good from ill; 
 And binding nature fast in fate. 
 
 Left free the human will. 
 
 What conscience dictates to be done, 
 
 ( )r warns me not to do. 
 This, teach me more than hell to 
 shun, 
 
 That, more than heaven pursue. 
 
 What blessings Thy free bounty 
 gives, 
 
 Let ine not cast away ; 
 For Goil is paid when man receives ; 
 
 To enjoy is to obey. 
 
 Yet not to earth's contracted span 
 Thy goodness let me bound, 
 
 Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 
 \Vhen thousand worlds are round. 
 
 Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
 I'resume thy bolts to throw. 
 
 And deal danniation round the land 
 On each 1 judge Thy foe. 
 
 If I am right. Thy grace impart 
 
 Still in the right to stay ; 
 If 1 am wrong, oh, teach my heart 
 
 To find tha^ better way ! 
 
 Save me alike from foolish pride. 
 
 Or impious discontent, 
 At avight Thy wisdom has denied, 
 
 Or aught Thy goodness lent. 
 
 Teach me to feel another's woe. 
 
 To hide the fault I see: 
 That mercy 1 to others show, 
 
 That mercy show to me. 
 
 Mean though I am, not wholly so. 
 Since quickened by Thy breath ; 
 
 Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go. 
 Through this day's life or death! 
 
 This day, be bread and peace my lot: 
 
 All else beneath the sun. 
 Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. 
 
 And let Thy will be done. 
 
 To Thee, whose temple is all spaee. 
 Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! 
 
 One chorus let all Being raise ! 
 All Nature's incense "rise ! 
 
 Mary N. Prescott. 
 
 THE OLD STORY. 
 
 By the pleasant paths we know 
 All familiar flowers would grow. 
 
 Though we two were gone; 
 Moon anil stars would rise and set. 
 Dawn the laggard night forget, 
 
 And the world move on. 
 
 Spring would carol through the wood, 
 Life be counted sweet and good, 
 Winter storms would prove their 
 
 While the seasons sped ; [might. 
 Winter frosts make bold to bite. 
 
 Clouds lift overhead. 
 
 Still the sunset liglits would glow, 
 Still the heaven-appointed bow 
 
 In its place be himg; 
 Not one flower the less would bloom. 
 Though we two had met our doom. 
 
 No song less be sung. 
 
 Other lovers through the dew 
 Would go, loitering, two and two. 
 
 When the day was done ; 
 Lips would pass the kiss divine. 
 Hearts would beat like yours and 
 mine, — 
 
 Hearts that beat as one. 
 
434 
 
 PRESTON. 
 
 TO-DAY. 
 
 To-day the sunshine freely showers 
 
 Its benediction where we stand ; 
 There's not a passing cloud that 
 lowers 
 Above this pleasant summer land ; 
 Then let's not waste the sweet to- 
 day, — 
 To-morrow, who can say '.' 
 
 Perhaps, to-morrow we may be, — 
 Alas! alas! the thought is pain, — 
 
 As far apart as sky and sea. 
 Sundered to meet no more again ; 
 
 Then let us clasp thee, sweet to- 
 day, — 
 To-morrow, who can say ? 
 
 The daylight fades ; a purple dream 
 Of twilight hovers overhead. 
 
 While all the trembling stars but seem 
 Like sad tears yet unshed : 
 
 Oh, sweet to-day, so soon away ! 
 To-morrow, who can say '? 
 
 ISouND asleep! no sigh can reach 
 Him who dreams the heavenly 
 
 dream ; 
 No to-morrow's silver speech 
 Wake him with an earthly theme. 
 Summer rains, relentlessly, 
 Patter where his head doth lie. 
 There the wild rose and the brake 
 All their summer leisiu-e take. 
 Violets, blinded by the dew, 
 Perfume lend to the sad rue. 
 Till the day break fair and clear, 
 And no shadow doth appear. 
 
 Margaret Junkin Preston. 
 
 EQUIPOISE. 
 
 Just when we think we've fixed the 
 golden mean. — 
 The diamond point, on which to 
 
 balance fair 
 Life and life's lofty issues, weigh- 
 ing there, 
 With fractional precision, close and 
 
 keen. 
 Thought, motive, word and deed, — 
 there conies between 
 Some wayward circumstance, some 
 
 jostling care. 
 Some temper's fret, some mood's 
 unwise despair, 
 To mar the equilibrium, imforeseen, 
 And spoil our nice adjustment ! — 
 Happy he. 
 Whose soul's calm equipoise can 
 know no jar, 
 Because the unwavering hand that 
 holds the scales, 
 Is the same hand that weighed each 
 steadfast star, — 
 Is the same hand that on the sa- 
 cred tree [nails! 
 Bore, for his sake, the anguish of the 
 
 ouns. 
 
 Most perfect attribute of love, that 
 knows 
 No separate self, — no conscious 
 
 i»hic nor thine : 
 But mystic union, closer, more di- 
 vine [close. 
 Than wedded soul and body can dis- 
 No flush of pleasure on thy forehead 
 
 glows. 
 No mist of feeling in thine eyes can 
 shine. 
 No faintest pain surprise thee, but 
 there goes 
 The lightntng-spark along love's 
 viewless line, 
 Bearing Avith instant message to 
 my heart, 
 Besponsive recognition. Suns or 
 showers 
 May come between us; silences 
 may part ; 
 The rushing world know not, nor 
 
 care to know ; — 
 Yet back and forth the flashing 
 secrets go. 
 Whose sacred, only sesame is, o?()-.s- .' 
 
PRESTON. 
 
 435 
 
 XATURE'ti LESSOK. 
 
 Pain is no longer pain when it is 
 past ; 
 And what is all the mirth of yes- 
 terday, 
 More than the yester flush that 
 paled away, 
 Leaving no trace across the landscape 
 cast 
 Whereby to prove its presence 
 there '? The blast 
 That bowed the knotted oak beneath 
 
 its sway, 
 And rent the lissome ash. the forest 
 may 
 Take heed of longer, since strewn 
 leaves outlast 
 Strewn sunbeams even. Be thoi^ like 
 Nature then. 
 Calmly receptive of all sweet de- 
 lights. 
 The while they soothe and strengthen 
 thee: and when 
 The wrench of trial comes with 
 swirl and strain. 
 Think of the still progressive days 
 and nights, 
 That blot with equal sweep, both 
 joy and pain. 
 
 GOD'S PATIENCE. 
 
 Of all the attril)utes Avhose starry 
 rays 
 Converge and centre in one focal 
 
 light 
 Of luminous glory such as angels' 
 sight 
 
 Can only look on with a blenched 
 a)naze, 
 None crowns the brow of God with 
 purer blaze, 
 
 Xor lifts His grandeur to more infi- 
 nite height. 
 
 Than His exhaustless patience. Let 
 us praise 
 
 With wondering hearts, this strangest 
 tenderest grace, 
 Kemembering, awe-struck, that the 
 avenging rod 
 
 Of justice must have fallen, and mer- 
 cy's plan 
 
 Been frustrate, had not Patience 
 stood between, 
 Divinely meek: And let us learn 
 that man. 
 Toiling, enduring, pleading, — calm, 
 serene, 
 For those M'ho scorn and slight, is 
 likest God. 
 
 THE SHADOW. 
 
 It comes betwixt me and the ame- 
 thyst 
 Of yon far mountain's billowy 
 range; — the sky, 
 
 Mild with sun-setting calmness, to 
 my eye 
 Is curtained ever by its haunting 
 mist; 
 
 And oftentimes when some dear 
 brow I've kissed. 
 
 My lips grow tremulous as it sweeps 
 me by. 
 
 With stress of overmastering agony 
 That faith and reason all in vain 
 resist. 
 
 It blurs my fairest books ; it dims the 
 page 
 Of the divinest loi'c; and on my 
 tongue 
 
 The broken prayer that inward 
 strength would crave, 
 
 Dissolves in sobs no soothing can as- 
 suage ; 
 And this penumbral gloom. — this 
 heart-cloud flung 
 
 Aroimd me is, the memory of a grave. 
 
 STONEWALL JACKSON'S GliAVE. 
 
 A SIMPLE, sodded mound of earth. 
 
 Without a line above it ; 
 With only daily votive flowers 
 
 To prove that any love it : 
 The token flag that silently 
 
 Each breeze's visit numbers. 
 Alone keeps martial ward above 
 
 The hero's dreamless slumbers. 
 
 No name ? — no record ? Ask the 
 world ; 
 The world has read his story : — 
 
If all its annals can unfold 
 
 A prouder tale of glory ; 
 If ever merely human life 
 
 Hath taught diviner moral, — 
 If ever round a worthier brow 
 
 Was twined a purer laurel ! 
 
 A twelvemonth only, since his sword 
 
 Went flashing through the battle, — 
 A twelvemonth only, since his ear 
 
 Heard war's last deadly rattle, — 
 And yet, have countless pilgrim feet 
 
 The pilgrim's guerdon paid him, 
 And weeping women come to see 
 
 The place where they have laid 
 him. 
 
 Contending armies bring in turn, 
 
 Their meed of praise or honor. 
 And Pallas here has paused to bind 
 
 The cypress-wreath upon her: 
 It seems a holy sepulchre. 
 
 Whose sanctities can waken 
 Alike the love of friend or foe — 
 
 Of Christian or of pagan. 
 
 But who shall weigh the wordless 
 grief 
 That leaves in tears its traces. 
 As round their leader crowd again 
 The bronzed and veteran faces ? 
 The "Old Brigade" he loved so 
 well — 
 The mountain men, who bound 
 him 
 With bays of their own winning, ere 
 A tardier fame had crowned him; 
 
 The legions who had seen his glance 
 
 Across the carnage flashing 
 And thrilled to catch his ringing 
 " cliarge " 
 
 Above the volley crashing; — 
 Who oft had watched the lifted hand, 
 
 The inward trust betraying, 
 And felt their courage grow sublime. 
 
 While they beheld him praying! 
 
 Eare fame ! rare name ! — If chanted 
 praise, 
 
 With all the world to listen, — 
 If pride that swells a nation's soul, — 
 
 If foemen's tears that glisten, — 
 
 If ijilgrim's shrining love, — if grief 
 Which naught may soothe or 
 sever, — 
 
 If these can consecrate, — this spot 
 Is sacred ground forever! 
 
 THERE'LL COME A DAY. 
 
 There'll come a day when the 
 supremest splendor 
 Of earth, or sky, or sea, 
 Whate'er their miracles, sublime or 
 tender. 
 Will wake no joy in me. 
 
 There'll come a day when all the as- 
 piration, 
 Now with such fervor fraught , 
 As lifts to heights of breathless exal- 
 tation. 
 Will seem a thing of naught. 
 
 There'll come a day when riches, 
 honor, glory. 
 Music and song and art. 
 Will look like puppets in a worn-out 
 story. 
 Where each has played his part. 
 
 There'll come a day when human 
 love, the sweetest 
 Gift that includes the whole 
 Of God's grand giving — sovereign- 
 est. completest — 
 Shall fail to till my soul. 
 
 There'll come a day — I will not care 
 how ]iasses 
 The cloud across my sight. 
 If only, lark-like, from earth's nested 
 grasses, 
 I spring to meet its light. 
 
 THE TYRANNY OF MOOD. 
 
 I. MORNING. 
 
 It is enough: I feel, this golden 
 
 morn, 
 
 As if a royal appanage were mine. 
 
 Through Nature's queenly warrant 
 
 of divine |born, 
 
 Investiture. What princess, palace- 
 
PRINGLE. 
 
 431 
 
 Hath right of rapture more, when 
 skies adorn 
 Tlieinselves so grandly; wlien the 
 
 mountains sliine 
 Transfigured ; when tlie air exalts 
 like wine; 
 When pearly purples steep the yel- 
 lowing corn '? 
 So satisfied with all the goodliness 
 Of God's good world, — my being 
 to its brim 
 Surcharged with litter thankfulness 
 no less [glad 
 
 Than bliss of beauty, passionately 
 Through rush of tears that leaves the 
 landscape dim, — 
 "Who dares," 1 say, "in such a 
 world be sad '^ '' 
 
 II. NIGHT. 
 
 I PRESS my cheek against the win- 
 dow-pane. 
 And gaze abroad into the blank, 
 black space 
 
 Where earth and sky no more have 
 
 any place, 
 Wiped from existence by the expung- 
 ing rain ; 
 And as I hear the worried Minds 
 complain, 
 A darkness, darker than the mirk 
 
 whose trace 
 Invades the curtained room, is on my 
 face. 
 Beneath Mhicli, life and life's best 
 ends seem vain. 
 My swelling aspirations viewless 
 sink 
 As yon cloud-blotted hills: hopes 
 that shone bright 
 As planets yester-eve, like them to- 
 night 
 Are gulfed, the impenetrable mists 
 before : 
 "' O weary world!" I cry, "how 
 dare I think 
 Thou hast for me one gleam of 
 gladness more ? " 
 
 Thomas Pringle. 
 
 AFAR IN THE DESEIiT. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 
 With the silent bush-boy alone by 
 my side. 
 
 When the sorrows of life the soul 
 o'ercast, 
 
 And, sick of the present, I cling to 
 the past ; 
 
 When the eye is suffused with regret- 
 ful tears. 
 
 From the fond recollections of former 
 years ; 
 
 And shadows of things that have 
 long since fled 
 
 Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of 
 the dead ; 
 
 Bright visions of glory that vanished 
 too soon; 
 
 Day-dreams that departed ere man- 
 hood's noon; [reft; 
 
 Attachments by fate or falsehood 
 
 Companions of early days lost or 
 left — 
 
 And my native land — whose magi- 
 cal name 
 
 Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; 
 
 The home of my childhood : the 
 haunts of my prime: 
 
 All the ])assions and scenes of that 
 ra])turous time 
 
 When the feelings were young, and 
 the Morld was new, 
 
 Like the fresh bowers of Eden un- 
 folding to view; 
 
 Ah — all now forsaken — forgotten — 
 foregone! [none — 
 
 And I — a lone exile remembered of 
 
 My high aims abandoned — my good 
 acts undone — 
 
 Aweary of all that is under the sun, — 
 
 AVith that sadness of lieart which no 
 stranger may scan, 
 
 I fly to the desert afar from man. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 With the silent bush-boy alone by 
 my side, 
 
438 
 
 FEINGLE. 
 
 When the wild turmoil of this weari- 
 some life, 
 
 With its scenes of oppression, cor- 
 ruption, and strife — 
 
 The proud man's frown, and the base 
 man's fear — 
 
 The scorner's laugh, and the suffer- 
 er's tear — 
 
 And malice, and meanness, and 
 falsehood and folly, 
 
 Dispose me to musing and dark mel- 
 ancholy ; 
 
 When my bosom is full, and my 
 thoughts are high. 
 
 And my soul is sick with the bond- 
 man's sigh — 
 
 Oh! then there is freedom, and joy 
 and pride. 
 
 Afar in the desert alone to ride ! 
 
 There is rapture to vault on the 
 champing steed. 
 
 And to bound away with the eagle's 
 speed. 
 
 With the death-fraught firelock in 
 my hand — 
 
 The only law of the desert land ! 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride, 
 AVith the silent bush-boy alone by my 
 
 side, 
 Away — away from the dwellings of 
 
 men. 
 By the wild deer's haunt, by the buf- 
 falo's glen; 
 By valleys remote where the oriby 
 
 plays 
 Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the 
 
 hartebeest graze. 
 And the kudu and eland unhunted 
 
 recline 
 By the skirts of gray forest o'erhimg 
 
 with wild vine I 
 Where the elephant browses at peace 
 
 in his wood. 
 And the river-horse gambols unscared 
 
 in the flood. 
 And the mighty rhinoceros wallows 
 
 at will 
 In the fen where the wild ass is 
 
 drinking his fill. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 With the silent bush-boy alone by my 
 side. 
 
 O'er the brown karroo, where the 
 
 bleating ci-y 
 Of the springbok's fawn sounds plain- 
 tively ; 
 And the timorous quagga's shrill 
 
 whistling neigh 
 Is heard by the foimtain at twilight 
 
 gray; 
 Where the zebra wantonly tosses his 
 
 mane. 
 With wild hoof scouring the desolate 
 
 plain ; 
 And the fleet-footed ostrich over the 
 
 waste 
 Speeds like a horseman who travels 
 
 in haste, 
 Hieing away to the home of her rest. 
 Where she and her mate have scoojjed 
 
 their nest, 
 Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's 
 
 view 
 In the pathless depths of the parched 
 
 karroo. 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ride. 
 With tlie silent bush-boy alone by 
 
 my side. 
 Away — away — in the wilderness 
 
 vast. 
 Where the white man's foot hath 
 
 never passed. 
 And the quivered Coranna or Bech- 
 
 uan 
 Hath rarely crossed with his roving 
 
 clan ; 
 A region of emptiness, howling and 
 
 drear. 
 Which man hath abandoned from 
 
 famine and fear; 
 Which the snake and the lizard in- 
 habit alone, 
 W^ith the twilight bat from the yawn- 
 ing stone ; 
 Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub 
 
 takes root. 
 Save poisonous thorns that pierce 
 
 the foot : 
 And the bitter-melon, for food and 
 
 drink. 
 Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's 
 
 brink; 
 A region of drought, where no river 
 
 glides, 
 Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; 
 
Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling 
 
 fount, 
 Xor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount. 
 Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; 
 But the barren earth and the burning 
 
 sky, [round, 
 
 And the blank horizon, round and 
 iSpread — void of living sight or 
 
 sound. 
 
 And here, while the night-winds 
 round me sigh, 
 
 And the stars burn bright in the mid- 
 night sky. 
 
 As I sit apart by the desert stone, 
 
 Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, 
 
 "A still small voice" comes through 
 the wild 
 
 (Like a father consoling his fretful 
 child). 
 
 Which banishes bitterness, wrath, 
 and fear, — 
 
 Saying — Man is distant, but God is 
 near! 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 [From Solomon.] 
 THE WISE MAK IN DARKNESS. 
 
 Happy the mortal man, who now at 
 last 
 
 Has through the doleful vale of mis- 
 ery jiassed ; 
 
 Who to his destined stage has carried 
 on 
 
 The tedious load, and laid his bur- 
 dens down; 
 
 Whom the cut brass or mounded mar- 
 ble shows 
 
 Victor o"er life and all her train of 
 woes. 
 
 He happier yet, who, iirivileged by 
 fate 
 
 To shorter labor, and a lighter 
 weight, 
 
 Eeceived but yesterday the gift of 
 breath. 
 
 Ordered to-morrow to return to 
 death. 
 
 But oh! beyond description, happiest 
 he 
 
 Who ne'er must roll on life's tumul- 
 tuous sea ; 
 
 Who with blessed freedom from the 
 general doom 
 
 Exempt, must never force the teem- 
 ing womb, 
 
 Nor see the sun, nor sink into the 
 
 tomb. 
 Who breathes must suffer ; and who 
 
 thinks must mourn; 
 And he alone is blest who ne'er was 
 
 born. 
 
 [From Solomon.] 
 THE WISE MAN IN LIGHT. 
 
 Supreme, all- wise, eternal Poten- 
 tate! 
 
 Sole Author, sole Dispenser of our 
 fate! 
 
 Enthroned in light and immor- 
 tality! 
 
 Whom no man fully sees, and none 
 can see ! 
 
 Original of beings ! Power divine ! 
 
 Since that I live, and that I think, is 
 Thine; 
 
 Benign Creator, let Thy plastic hand 
 
 Dispose its own effect. Let Thy com- 
 mand 
 
 Restore, great Father, Thy instructed 
 son; 
 
 And in my act, may Thy great will 
 be done! 
 
 
440 
 
 PROCTER. 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter. 
 
 ONE BY ONE. 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing, 
 One by one the moments fall ; 
 
 Some are coming, some are going. 
 Do not strive to grasp them all. 
 
 One by one thy duties wait thee, 
 Let thy whole strength go to each, 
 
 Let no future dreams elate thee. 
 Learn thou lirst what these can 
 teach. 
 
 One by one (bright gifts from Heav- 
 en) 
 
 Joys are sent thee here below ; 
 Take them readily when given, 
 
 Eeady too to let them go. 
 
 One by one thy griefs shall meet 
 thee. 
 
 Do not fear an armed band ; 
 One will fade as others greet thee; 
 
 Shadows passing through the land. 
 
 Do not look at life's long sorrow; 
 
 See how small each moment's pain, 
 God will help thee for to-morrow, 
 
 So each day begin again. 
 
 Every hour that fleets so slowly 
 Has its task to do or bear; 
 
 Lmninous the crown, and holy. 
 When each gem is set with care. 
 
 Do not linger Avith regretting, 
 Or for passing hours despond ; 
 
 Nor, the daily toil forgetting. 
 Look too eagerly beyond. 
 
 Hours are golden links, God's token. 
 Reaching heaven ; but one by one 
 
 Take thern, lest the chain be broken 
 Ere the pilgrimage be done. 
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 Judge not ; the workings of his brain 
 And of his heart thou canst not 
 see; 
 
 Wbat looks to thy dim eyes a stain, 
 
 In God's pure light may only be 
 A scar, brought from some well-won 
 
 held, 
 Where thou wouldst only faint and 
 
 yield. 
 
 The look, the air, that frets thy sight, 
 May be a token, that below 
 
 The soul has closed in deadly fight 
 With some infernal fiery foe," 
 
 Whose glance would scorch thy smil- 
 ing grace. 
 
 And cast thee shuddering on thy face ! 
 
 The fall thou darest to despise, — 
 May be the angel's slackened hand 
 
 Has suffered it, that he may rise 
 And take a firmer, surer stand ; 
 
 Or, trusting less to earthly things. 
 
 May hencefortli learn to use his 
 wings. 
 
 And judge none lost; but wait and 
 see. 
 With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of 
 pain 
 And love and glory that may raise 
 This soul to God in after days ! 
 
 THANKF ULNESS. 
 
 My 
 
 God, I tliank Thee who hast 
 made 
 
 The earth so bright; 
 So full of splendor and of joy, 
 
 Beauty and light; 
 So many glorious things are here. 
 
 Noble and right ! 
 
 I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast 
 made 
 
 Joy to abound ; 
 So many gentle thoughts and deeds 
 
 Circling us round, 
 That in the darkest spot of earth 
 
 Some love is found. 
 
PROCTER. 
 
 441 
 
 I thank Thee more that all our joy 
 
 Is touched with pain; 
 That shadows fall on brightest hours ; 
 
 That thorns remain ; 
 So that earth's bliss may be oiu- 
 guide. 
 
 And not our chain. 
 
 For Thou who knowest, Lord, how 
 soon 
 
 Our weak heart clings, 
 Hast given us joys, tender and true, 
 
 Yet all with wings, 
 So that we see, gleaming on high. 
 
 Diviner things ! 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast 
 kept 
 
 The best in store ; 
 We have enough, yet not too much 
 
 To long for more : 
 A yearning for a deeper peace. 
 
 Not kno^\■n before. 
 
 I thank Thee. Lord, that here our 
 soids 
 
 Though amply blest, 
 Can never find, although they seek, 
 
 A perfect rest. — 
 Xor ever shall, until they lean 
 
 On Jesus' breast! 
 
 A LOST CHORD. 
 
 Seated one day at the organ, 
 I was weary and ill at ease. 
 
 And my fingers wandered idly 
 Over the noisy keys. 
 
 I do not know what I was playing, 
 Or what I was dreaming then ; 
 
 But I struck one chord of music. 
 Like the sound of a great Amen. 
 
 It flooded the crimson twilight, 
 Like the close of an angel's psalm. 
 
 And it lay on my fevered spirit 
 With a touch of infinite calm. 
 
 It quieted pain and sorrow. 
 Like love overcoming strife; 
 
 It seemed the harmonious echo 
 From our discordant life. 
 
 It linked all perplexed meanings 
 
 Into one perfect peace. 
 And trembled away into silence 
 
 As if it were loth to cease. 
 
 I have sought, but I seek it vainly. 
 
 That one lost chord divine. 
 That came from the soul of the organ, 
 
 And entered into mine. 
 
 It may be that death's bright angel 
 AVill speak in that chord again. 
 
 It may be that only in heaven 
 I shall hear that grand Amen. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Hush! speak low; tread softly; 
 
 Draw the sheet aside ; — 
 Yes, she does look peaceful; 
 
 With that smile she died. 
 
 Yet stern want and sorrow 
 
 Even now you trace 
 On the wan, worn features 
 
 Of the still white face. 
 
 Eestless, helpless, hopeless, 
 Was her bitter part ; — 
 
 Now, — how still the violets 
 Lie upon her heart ! 
 
 She who toiled and labored 
 
 For her daily bread ; 
 See the velvet hangings 
 
 Of this stately bed. 
 
 Yes, they did forgive her; 
 
 Brought her home at last; 
 Strove to cover over 
 
 Their relentless past. 
 
 Ah, they woidd have given 
 Wealth, and home, and pride, 
 
 To see her just look happy 
 Once before she died ! 
 
 They strove hard to please her, 
 But, when death is near. 
 
 All you know is deadened, 
 Hope, and joy, and fear. 
 
 
And besides, one sorrow 
 Deeper still, — one pain 
 
 Was beyond thom : healing 
 Came lo-day, — in vain! 
 
 If she liad but lingered 
 Just a few hours more; 
 
 Or had this letter readied her 
 Just one day before! 
 
 I can almost pity 
 
 Even him to-day ; 
 Though he let this anguish 
 
 Eat her heart away. 
 
 Yet she never blamed him : — 
 One day you shall know 
 
 How this sorrow liappened ; 
 It was long ago. 
 
 I have read the letter; 
 
 Many a weary year, 
 For one word slie hungered, — 
 
 There are thousands here. 
 
 If she could but hear it. 
 Could but understand ; 
 
 See, — I put tlie letter 
 In lier cold white hand. 
 
 Even these words, so longed for, 
 
 Do not stir her rest; 
 Well, I should not murmur. 
 
 For God judges best. 
 
 She needs no more pity, — 
 
 But I mourn his fate, 
 When he hears his letter 
 
 Came a day too late. 
 
 CLEASSIXG FIRES. 
 
 Let thy gold be cast in the furnace, 
 
 Tliy red gold, precious and briglit, 
 Do not fear the hungry fire. 
 
 With its caverns of burning light; 
 And thy gold shall return more pre- 
 cious, 
 
 Free from every spot and stain ; 
 For gold must be tried by fire, 
 
 As a heart must be tried by pain I 
 
 In the cruel fire of sorrow. 
 
 Cast thy heart, do not faint or wail ; 
 Let thy hand be firm and steady, 
 
 Do not let thy spirit quail: 
 But wait till the trial is over, 
 
 And take thy heart again ; 
 For as gold is tried by fire. 
 
 So a heart must be tried by pain! 
 
 I shall know by the gleam and glitter 
 
 Of the golden chain you wear. 
 By your heart's calm strength in lov- 
 ing- 
 
 Of the fire they have had to bear. 
 Beat on. true heart, forever; 
 
 Shine bright, strong golden chain; 
 And bless the cleansing fire, 
 
 And the furnace of living pain! 
 
 A WOMAN- S QUESTIOX. 
 
 Befoke I trust my fate to thee, 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 
 Before I let thy future give 
 Color and form to mine, 
 
 Before I peril all for thee, 
 
 Question thy soul to-night for me. 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
 
 A shadow of regret: 
 Is there one link within the past 
 
 That holds thy spirit yet ? 
 Or is thy faith as clear and free 
 
 As that which I can pledge to 
 thee ? 
 
 Does there within thy dimmest 
 dreams 
 A possible future shine. 
 Wherein thy life could henceforth 
 breathe. 
 Untouched, unshared by mine "' 
 If so, at any pain or cost, 
 Oh, tell me before all is lost. 
 
 Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 
 
 AVitliin thy inmost soul. 
 That thou hast kept a portion back. 
 
 While I have staked tlie whole ; 
 Let no false pity spare the blow, 
 
 But in true mercy tell me so. 
 
PROCTER. 
 
 443 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine cannot fulfil ? 
 One chonl that any other hand 
 
 Could hetter wake or still ? 
 Speak now, — lest at some future day 
 
 My whole life wither and decay. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature hid 
 The demon-spirit Change, 
 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 Ou all things new and strange ? 
 
 It may not be thy fault alone, — 
 But shield my heart against thy 
 own. 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one 
 flay. 
 iVnd answer to my claim, 
 That fate, and that to-day's mistake. 
 
 Not thou, — had been to blame ? 
 Some soothe their conscience thus ; but 
 thou 
 Wilt surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear. 
 The words would come too late; 
 
 Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
 So, comfort thee, my fate, — 
 
 Whatever on my heart may fall, — 
 Kemember, I vjould risk it all! 
 
 IXCOMPLE TEN ESS. 
 
 Nothing resting in its own complete- 
 ness 
 
 Can have worth or beauty : but alone 
 
 Because it leads and tends to farther 
 sweetness. 
 
 Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. 
 
 Spring's real glory dwells not in the 
 
 meaning. 
 Gracious though it be, of her blue 
 
 hours ; 
 But is hidden in her tender leaning 
 To the summer's richer wealth of 
 
 flowers. 
 
 Dawn is fair, because the mists fade 
 
 slowly 
 Into day, which floods the world 
 
 with light; 
 
 Twilight's mystery is so sweet and 
 
 holy 
 Just because it ends in starry night. 
 
 Childhood's smiles unconscious 
 
 graces borrow 
 From strife, that in a far-off future 
 
 lies ; 
 And angel glances (veiled now by 
 
 life's sorrow) 
 Draw our hearts to some beloved 
 
 eyes. 
 
 Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
 Towards a truer, deeper life above ; 
 Human love is sweetest when it lead- 
 
 eth 
 To a more divine and perfect love. 
 
 Learn the mystery of progression 
 duly: 
 
 Do not call each glorious change, de- 
 cay; 
 
 But know we only hold our treasures 
 truly, 
 
 ^Vhen it seems as if they passed 
 away. 
 
 Nor dare to blame God's gifts for in- 
 completeness ; 
 
 In that want their beauty lies : they 
 roll 
 
 Towards some infinite de^Jth of love 
 and sweetness, 
 
 Bearing onward man's reluctant 
 soul. 
 
 STRIVE, WAIT, AND PJiAY. 
 
 Strive : yet I do not promise 
 
 The prize you dream of to-day 
 Will not fade when you think to 
 grasp it. 
 
 And melt in your hand away ; 
 But another and holier treasure, 
 
 You would now perchance disdain, 
 Will come when your toil is over. 
 
 And pay you for all your pain. 
 
 Wait ; yet I do not tell you 
 The hour you long for now 
 
 Will not come with its radiance van- 
 ished. 
 And a shadow upon its brow ; 
 
Yet far through the misty future, 
 With a crown of starry light, 
 
 An hour of joy you Ivuow not 
 Is winging her silent flight. 
 
 Pray ; thougli the gift you ask for 
 May never comfort yom* fears, 
 
 May never repay your pleading, 
 Yet pray, and with hopeful 
 tears ; 
 
 An answer, not that you long for, 
 But diviner, will come one day; 
 
 Your eyes are too dim to see it. 
 Yet strive, and wait, and pray. 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 We are born; we laugh; we weep; 
 
 We love; we droop; we die I 
 Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 
 
 Why do we live or die '? 
 Who knows that secret deep ? 
 
 Alas, not I ! 
 
 "Why doth the violet spring 
 
 Unseen by human eye ? 
 Why do the radiant seasons bring 
 
 Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
 Why do our fond hearts cling 
 
 To things that die ? 
 
 We toil — through pain and wrong; 
 
 We fight — and fly ; 
 We love; we lose; and then, ere 
 long, 
 
 Stone-dead we lie. 
 O Life! is all thy song! 
 
 '' Endure and — die?" 
 
 A PETITION TO TIME. 
 
 To ITCH US gently. Time! 
 
 Let US glide adown thy stream 
 Gently — as we sometimes glide 
 
 Tlirough a quiet dream! 
 Ilmnble voyagers are we. 
 Husband, wife, and children three — 
 (One is lost — an angel, fled 
 To the azure overhead!) 
 
 Touch us gently, Time! 
 
 We've not proud nor soaring wings ; 
 Our ambition, our content, 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 
 Humble voyagers are we. 
 O'er life's dim unsounded sea. 
 Seeking only some calm clime; 
 Touch us gently, gentle Time ! 
 
 LOVE ME IF I LIVE. 
 
 Love me if Hive! y 
 
 Love me if I die! 
 What to me is life or death, 
 
 So that thou be nigh ? 
 
 Once I loved thee rich. 
 Now I love thee poor; 
 
 Ah ! what is there I could not 
 For thy sake endure ? 
 
 Kiss me for my love! 
 
 Pay me for my pain ! 
 Come ! and murmur in my ear 
 
 How thou lov'st again! 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 The sea! the sea! the open sea! 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 
 Without a mark, Avithout a bound, 
 It runneth the earth's wide regions 
 
 round ! 
 It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the 
 
 skies; 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! 
 
 I am where I would ever be ; 
 
 With the blue above, and the blue 
 
 below. 
 And silence wheresoe'er I go; 
 
PROCTER. 
 
 445 
 
 If a storm should come and awake 
 
 the deep, 
 What matter '^ I shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I love, oh, lioio 1 love to ride 
 
 On the tierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
 
 When every mad wave drowns the 
 
 moon. 
 Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 
 And tells how goeth the world Ijelow, 
 And why the sou' west blasts do blow. 
 
 I never was on the dull, tame shore. 
 But I loved the great sea more and 
 
 more. 
 And backward flew to her billowy 
 
 breast, [nest; 
 
 Like a bird that seeketh its mother's 
 And a mother she was, and is, to me; 
 For I was born on the open sea ! 
 
 The waves were white, and red the 
 morn. 
 
 In the noisy hour when I was born ; 
 
 And the wliale it whistled, the por- 
 poise rolled, 
 
 And the dolphins bared their backs 
 of gold; [wild 
 
 And never was heard such an outcry 
 
 As welcomed to life the ocean child! 
 
 I've lived since then, in calm and 
 
 strife. 
 Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, 
 With wealth to spend and a power to 
 
 range, 
 But never have sought nor sighed for 
 
 change ; 
 And Death, whenever he comes to me. 
 Shall come on the wild, unbounded 
 
 sea! 
 
 HISTORY OF A LIFE. 
 
 Day dawned: — within a curtained 
 
 room. 
 Filled to faintness with perfume, 
 A lady lay at point of doom. 
 
 Day closed; — a child had seen the 
 
 light; 
 But, for the lady fair and bright, 
 She rested in undreamintr night. 
 
 Spring rose; the lady's grave was 
 
 green ; 
 And near it, oftentimes, was seen 
 A gentle boy with thoughtfid mien. 
 
 Years fled ; — he wore a manly face, 
 And struggled in the world's rough 
 
 race. 
 And won at last a lofty place. 
 
 And then he died ! Behold before ye 
 Humanity's poor sum and story; 
 Life, — Death, — and all that is of 
 glory. 
 
 A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Send down Thy winged angel, God ! 
 
 Amid this night so wild; 
 And bid him come where now we 
 watch. 
 
 And breathe upon our child ! 
 
 She lies upon her pillow, pale, 
 And moans within her sleep. 
 
 Or wakeneth with a patient smile, 
 And striveth not to weep. 
 
 How gentle and how good a child 
 
 She is. we know too well. 
 And dearer to her parents' hearts 
 
 Than our weak words can tell. 
 
 We love — we watch throughout the 
 night, 
 To aid, when need may be; 
 We hope — and have despaired, at 
 times; 
 But now we turn to Thee ! 
 
 Send down Thy sweet-souled angel, 
 God! 
 
 Amid the darkness wild ; 
 And bid him soothe our souls to-night. 
 
 And heal our gentle child ! 
 
 THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 How^ many summers, love, 
 
 Have I been thine ? 
 How many days, thou dove, 
 
 Hast thou been mine ? 
 
446 
 
 PROCTOR. 
 
 Time, like the winged wind 
 Wlien 't bends the flowers, 
 
 Hath left no mark behind, 
 To covmt the hours I 
 
 Some weight of thought, though loath, 
 
 On thee he leaves; 
 Some lines of care round both 
 
 Perhaps he weaves ; 
 Some fears, — a soft regret 
 
 For joys scarce known ; 
 Sweet looks we half forget; — 
 
 All else is flown ! 
 
 All! — With what thankless heart 
 
 I mourn and sing! 
 Look, where our children start, 
 
 Like sudden spring! 
 With tongues all sweet and low 
 
 Like pleasant rhyme. 
 They tell how much 1 owe 
 
 'i'o thee and time! 
 
 SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. 
 
 Softly woo away her breath. 
 
 Gentle death! 
 Let her leave thee with no strife, 
 
 Tender, mournful, murmuring life! 
 She hath seen her happy day, — 
 
 She hath had her bud and blos- 
 som; 
 
 Now she pales and shrinks away. 
 Earth, into thy gentle bosom I 
 
 She hath done her bidding here. 
 
 Angels dear ! 
 Bear her jjerfect soul above. 
 
 Seraph of the skies. — sweet 
 love ! 
 Good she was, and fair in youth: 
 
 And her mind was seen to soar, 
 And lier heart was wed to truth : 
 
 Take her, then, forevermore. — 
 Forever — evermore. — 
 
 / DIE FOB THY SWEET LOVE. 
 
 I DIE for thy sweet love ! The ground 
 Not panteth so for summer rain. 
 
 As 1 for one soft look of thine ; 
 And yet, — I sigh in vain ! 
 
 A hundred men are near 'thee now : 
 Each one, perhaps, surpassing 
 me; 
 
 But who doth feel a thousandth part 
 Of what I feel for thee ? 
 
 They look on thee, as men will look, 
 AVho round the wild world laugh 
 and rove; 
 
 / only think how sweet 'twould be 
 To die for thy sweet love ! 
 
 Edna Dean Proctor. 
 
 BUT HE A VEX, O LORD, I CAN- 
 NOT LOSE. 
 
 Now summer finds her perfect prime ! 
 
 Sweet blows the wind from west- 
 ern calms ; 
 On every bower red roses climb; 
 
 The meadows sleep in mingled 
 balms. 
 Nor stream, nor bank the wayside by, 
 
 But lilies float and daisies throng. 
 Nor space of blue and sunny sky 
 
 That is not cleft with soaring song. 
 
 O flowery morns, O tuneful eves. 
 
 Fly swift! my soul ye cannot fill! 
 Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered 
 sheaves. 
 The drifting snows on plain and 
 hill. 
 Alike to me, fall frosts and dews; 
 But Heaven, O Lord. I cannot lose ! 
 
 Warm hands to-day are clasped in 
 mine : 
 Fond hearts my mirth or mourning 
 share : 
 
And, over lioi)e's horizon line. 
 
 The futnre dawns, serenely fair; 
 Yet still, though fervent vow denies, 
 
 I know the rapture will not stay; 
 Some wind of grief or doubt will 
 rise 
 
 And turn ray rosy sky to gray. 
 I shall awake, in rainy morn. 
 
 To find my heart left lone and 
 drear ; 
 Thus, half in sadness, half in scorn. 
 
 I let my life burn on as clear 
 Though friends grow cold or fond 
 
 love woos ; 
 But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! 
 
 In golden hours, the angel Peace 
 
 Comes down ami broods me with 
 her wings: 
 I gain from sorrow sweet release; 
 
 I mate me with divinest things; 
 When shapes of guilt and gloom 
 arise 
 
 And far the radiant angel flees, — 
 My song is lost in mournful sighs. 
 
 My wine of triumph left but lees. 
 In vain for me her pinions shine. 
 
 And pure, celestial days begin: 
 Earth's passion-flowers 1 still must 
 twine. 
 
 Nor braid one beauteous lily in. 
 Ah! is it good or ill I choose ? 
 But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! 
 
 So wait I. Every day that dies 
 With flush and fragrance born of 
 June, 
 I know shall more resplendent rise 
 Where sunnner needs nor sun nor 
 moon. 
 And every bud on love's low tree. 
 Whose mocking crimson flames and 
 falls. 
 In fullest flower I yet shall see 
 
 High blooming by the jasper walls. 
 Xay, every sin that dims my days. 
 And wild regrets that veil the 
 sun. 
 Shall fade before those dazzling 
 rays. 
 And my long glory be begun ! 
 Let the years come to bless or bruise ; 
 Thy heaven, O Lord, I shall not 
 lose! 
 
 CONTOOCOOK RIVER. 
 
 Of all the streams that seek the sea 
 By momitain pass, or sunny lea, 
 Now where is one that dares to vie 
 With clear Contoocook, swift and 
 
 shy? 
 Monadnock's child, of snow-drifts 
 
 born, 
 The snows of many a winter morn. 
 And many a midnight dark and still. 
 Heaped higher, whiter, day by day, 
 To melt, at last, with suns of May, 
 And steal in tiny fall and rill, 
 Down the long slopes of granite gray : 
 Or, filter slow through seam and cleft, 
 When frost and storm the rock have 
 
 reft, 
 To bubble cool in sheltered springs 
 Wliei'e the lone red-bird dips his 
 
 Avings, 
 And the tired fox that gains its brink 
 Stoops, safe from hound and horn, to 
 
 drink. 
 Aud rills and springs, grown broad 
 
 and deep. 
 Unite through gorge and glen to 
 
 sweep 
 In roaring brooks that turn and take 
 The over-floods of pool and lake. 
 Till, to the fields, the hills deliver 
 Contoocook' s bright and brimming 
 
 river ! 
 
 O have you seen, from Hillsboro' 
 
 town 
 How fast its tide goes hurrying down. 
 With rapids now, and now a leap 
 Past giant boulders, black and steep. 
 Plunged in mid water, fain to keep 
 Its current from the meadows green ? 
 But, flecked with foam, it speeds 
 
 along ; 
 And not the birch trees' silvery sheen. 
 Nor the soft lull of whispering pines. 
 Nor hermit thrushes, fluting low. 
 Nor ferns, nor cardinal flowers that 
 
 glow 
 Where clematis, the fairy, twines. 
 Can stay its course, or still its song; 
 Ceaseless it flows till, round its bed, 
 The vales of Ilenniker are spread. 
 Their banks all set with golden grain. 
 Or stately trees whose vistas gleam — 
 A double forest in the stream; 
 
448 
 
 PROCTOR. 
 
 And, winding 'neath the pine- 
 crowned hill 
 That overhangs the village plain. 
 By sunny reaches, broad and still, 
 It nears the bridge that spans its 
 
 tide — 
 The bridge whose arches low and wide 
 It ripples through — and should you 
 
 lean 
 A moment there, no lovelier scene 
 On England's Wye, or Scotland's Tay, 
 Would charm your gaze a summer's 
 day. 
 
 And on it glides, by grove and glen. 
 Dark woodlands ami the homes of 
 
 men. 
 With now a ferry, now a mill: 
 Till, deep and calm, its waters fill 
 The channels round that gem of isles 
 Sacred to captives' woes and wiles. 
 And. gleeful half, half eddying back. 
 Blend with the lordly Merrimac: 
 And Merrimac whose tide is strong 
 Rolls gently, with its waves along, 
 Monadnock's stream that, coy and 
 
 fair, 
 Mas come, its larger life to share. 
 And, to the sea, doth safe deliver 
 Contoocook's bright and brimming 
 
 river! 
 
 DAILY DYING. 
 
 Not in a moment drops the rose 
 That in a summer garden grows: 
 A robin sings beneath the tree 
 A twilight song of ecstasy. 
 And the red, red leaves at its fragrant 
 heart, 
 Trembling so in delicious pain. 
 Fall to the ground with a sudden 
 start, 
 And the grass is gay with a crim- 
 son stain ; 
 And a honey-bee, out of the fields 
 
 of clover. 
 Heavily flying the garden over. 
 Brushes the stem as it passes by, 
 And others fall where the heart- 
 leaves lie, 
 And air and dew, ere the night is 
 
 done. 
 Have stolen the petals, every one. 
 
 And sunset's gleam of gorgeous dyes 
 Ne"er with one shadow fades away, 
 
 But slowly o'er those radiant skies 
 There steals the evening cold and 
 
 gray, 
 And amber and violet linger still 
 When stars are over the eastern hill. 
 
 The maple does not shed its leaves 
 In one tempestuous scarlet rain. 
 But softly, when the south wind 
 
 grieves, 
 Slow-wandering over wood and 
 
 plain, 
 One by one they waver through 
 The Indian Summer's hazy blue. 
 And drop, at last, on the forest 
 
 mould. 
 Coral and ruby and burning gold. 
 
 Our death is gradual, like to these: 
 
 AVe die with every waning day ; 
 There is no waft of sorrow's breeze 
 But bears some heart-leaf slow 
 
 away ! 
 Up and on to the vast To Be 
 Our life is going eternally! 
 Less of earth than we had last year 
 Throbs in your veins and throbs in 
 mine. 
 But the way to heaven is growing 
 clear, 
 While the gates of the city fairer 
 
 shine. 
 And the day that our latest treas- 
 ures flee, 
 Wide they will open for you and 
 me! 
 
 HEROES. 
 
 The winds that once the Argo bore 
 Have died by Neptune's ruined 
 shrines. 
 And her hull is the drift of the deep 
 sea-floor. 
 Though shaped of Pelion's tallest 
 pines. 
 You may seek her crew on every isle 
 
 Fair in the foam of ^Egean seas. 
 But, out of their rest, no charm can 
 wile 
 Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. 
 
PROCTOR. 
 
 449 
 
 And Priam's wail is heard no more 
 By windy Uion's sea-built walls; 
 Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, 
 Shonts, "O ye Gods! 'tis Hector 
 falls!" 
 On Ida's mount is the shining snow. 
 But Jove has gone from its brow 
 away ; 
 And red on the plain the poppies 
 grow 
 Where the Greek and the Trojan 
 fought that day. 
 
 Mother Earth! Are the hei'oes 
 dead ? 
 Do they thrill the soul of the years 
 no more ? 
 Are the gleaming snows and the pop- 
 pies red [yore ? 
 All that is left of the brave of 
 Are there none to fight as Theseus 
 fought ? 
 Far in the yoimg world's misty 
 dawn ? 
 Or to teach as the gray-haired Nestor 
 taught ■? 
 Mother Earth! are the heroes 
 gone '? 
 
 Gone ? In a grander form they rise ; 
 Dead ? We may clasp their hands 
 in ours ; [eyes. 
 
 And catch the light of their clearer 
 And wreathe their brows with im- 
 mortal flowers. 
 Wherever a noble deed is done 
 'T is the pulse of a hero's heart is 
 stirred ; 
 Wherever Right has a triumph won 
 There are the heroes' voices heard. 
 
 Their armor rings on a fairer field 
 Than the Greek and the Trojan 
 fiercely trod ; 
 For Freedom's sword is the blade 
 they wield. 
 And the light above is the smile of 
 of God. 
 
 So. in his isle of calm delight, 
 
 Jason may sleep the years away; 
 For the heroes live and the sky is 
 bright. 
 And the world is a braver world 
 to-day. 
 
 TO MOSCOW. 
 
 Across the steppe we journeyed, 
 
 The brown, fir-darkened plain 
 That rolls to east and rolls to west, 
 
 Broad as the billowy main, 
 When lo! a sudden splendor 
 Came shimmering through the air, 
 As if the clouds should melt and leave 
 
 The heights of heaven bare, — 
 A maze of rainbow domes and spires 
 
 Full glorious on the sky. 
 With wafted chimes from many a 
 tower 
 
 As the south-wind went by. 
 And a thousand crosses lightly hung 
 
 That shone like morning stars, — 
 'Twas the Kremlin wall! 'Twas Mos- 
 cow, — 
 
 The jewel of the Czars ! 
 
 SUNSET IX MO SCO IF. 
 
 O THE splendor of the city. 
 
 When the sun is in the west! 
 Ruddy gold on spire and belfry, 
 
 Gold on Moskwa's placid breast; 
 Till the twilight soft and sombre 
 
 Falls on wall and street and square, 
 And the domes and towers in shadow 
 
 Stand like silent monks at prayer. 
 
 'Tis the hour for dream and legend: 
 
 Meet me by the Sacred Gate ! 
 We will watch the crowd go by us; 
 
 We will stories old relate; 
 Till the bugle of the barracks 
 
 Calls the soldier to repose. 
 And from off the steppe to northward 
 
 Chill the wind of midnight blows. 
 
450 
 
 QUARLES. 
 
 Francis Quarles. 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 She's empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there 
 
 But noise to fill thy ear; 
 Thy vain inquiry can at length but find 
 
 A blast of murmin-ing wind : 
 It is a cask that seems as full as fair. 
 
 But merely tunned with air. 
 Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; 
 
 The soul that vainly founds 
 Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. 
 
 She's empty: hark! she sounds; there's nothing in't: 
 
 The spark-engendering flint 
 Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce shall first 
 
 Dissolve and quench thy thirst, 
 Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast 
 
 With smooth-faced calms of rest. 
 Thou mayst as well expect meridian light 
 
 From shades of black-mouthed night, 
 As in this empty world to find a full delight. 
 
 She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; 
 
 What if some flattering blast 
 Of fatiTous honor should perchance be there. 
 
 And whisper in thine ear ? 
 It is but wind, and blows but where it list, 
 
 And vanisheth like mist. 
 Poor honor earth can give ! What generous mind 
 
 Would be so base to bind 
 Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind ? 
 
 She's empty; hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball 
 
 For fools to play withal ; 
 The painted film but of a stronger bubble, 
 
 That's lined with silken trouble. 
 It is a world whose work and recreation 
 
 Is vanity and vexation ; 
 A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, 
 
 A quest-house of complaint. 
 It is a saint, a fiend ; worse fiend when most a saint. 
 
 She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void. 
 
 AVhat's here to be enjoyed 
 But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow. 
 
 Drawn now and crossed to-morrow ? 
 Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath, 
 
 Kevived with living death ? 
 Fond youth, O Inuld thy hopes on surer grounds 
 
 Than what dull flesh propovmds: 
 Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark! she sounds. 
 
ox MAK. 
 
 At our creation, but the Worrl was 
 said ; 
 And M'e were made ; 
 No sooner were, but our false hearts 
 did swell 
 
 With pride, and fell : 
 How slight is man ! At what an easy 
 cost 
 
 He's made and lost I 
 
 GRIEF FOR THE LOSS OF THE 
 DEAD. 
 
 I MUST lament, Nature commands it 
 
 so: 
 The more I strive with tears, the 
 
 more they How; 
 These eyes have just, nay, double 
 
 cause of moan ; 
 They weep the common loss, they 
 
 weep their own. 
 He sleeps indeed; then give me leave 
 
 to weep 
 Tears, fully answerable to his sleep. 
 
 How, how am I deceived I I thought 
 my bed 
 Had entertained a fair, a beauteous 
 bride : 
 Oh, how were my believing thoughts 
 
 misled 
 To a false beauty lying by my side! 
 Sweet were her kisses, full of choice 
 delight; [night: 
 
 My fancy found no difference in the 
 I thought they were true joys that 
 thus had led 
 
 My darkened soul, but they were 
 
 false alarms ; 
 I thought I'd had fair Rachel in my 
 
 bed. 
 But I had blear-eyed Leah in my 
 
 arnas : 
 How seeming sweet is sin when 
 
 clothed in light. 
 But, when discovered, what a 
 
 loathed delight. 
 
 OxV THE LIFE OF MAX. 
 
 Our life is nothing but a winter's 
 
 day; 
 Some only break their fasts, and so, 
 
 away : 
 Others stay dinner, and depart full 
 
 fed; 
 The deepest age but sups and goes to 
 
 bed: 
 He's most in debt that lingers out 
 
 the day ; 
 Who dies betimes, has less ; and less 
 
 to pay. 
 
 OX DOVES AXD SERPEXTS. 
 
 We must have doves and serpents in 
 
 our heart; 
 But how they must be marshalled, 
 
 there's the art. 
 They must agree, and not l)e far 
 
 asunder ; 
 The dove must hold the wily serpent 
 
 under; 
 Their natures teach what places they 
 
 must keep. 
 The dove can fly; the sei-pent only 
 
 creep. 
 
452 
 
 BALEIGH. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest, 
 Upon a thankless errand; 
 
 Fear not to touch the best; 
 The truth shall be thy warrant. 
 
 Go, since I needs must die, 
 
 And give them all the lie. 
 
 Go, tell the court it glows, 
 And shines like painted wood ; 
 
 Go, tell the church it shows 
 What's good, but does no good. 
 
 If court and church reply. 
 
 Give court and church the lie. 
 
 Tell potentates, they live 
 Acting, but oh I their actions 
 
 Not loved, unless they give; 
 
 Not strong, but by their factions. 
 
 If potentates reply, 
 
 Give potentates the lie. 
 
 Tell men of liigli condition, 
 That nde affairs of state, 
 
 Their purpose is ambition ; 
 Tlieir practice only hate. 
 
 Anil if they do reply, 
 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell those that brave it most. 
 They beg for more by spending. 
 
 Who, in their greatest cost. 
 Seek nothing but commending. 
 
 And if they make reply, 
 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 Tell zeal it lacks devotion ; 
 
 Tell love it is but lust; 
 Tell time it is but motion; 
 
 Tell tlesh it is but dust: 
 And wish them not reply, 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 Tell age it daily wasteth ; 
 
 Tell honor how it alters; 
 Tell beauty that it blasteth; 
 
 Tell favor that she falters ; 
 And as they do reply, 
 Give every one the lie. 
 
 Tell wit how much it wrangles 
 In fickle points of niceness ; 
 
 Tell wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in over-wiseness: 
 
 And if they do reply. 
 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell physic of her boldness; 
 
 Tell skill it is pretension; 
 Tell charity of coldness ; 
 
 Tell law it is contention: 
 And if they yield reply. 
 Then give them still the lie, 
 
 Tell fortune of her blindness ; 
 
 Tell nature of decay ; 
 Tell friendship of unkindness; 
 
 Tell justice of delay: 
 And if they do reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell arts they have not soundness, 
 
 But vary by esteeming: 
 Tell schools they lack profoundness, 
 
 And stand too much on seeming. 
 If arts and schools reply. 
 Give arts and schools the lie. 
 
 Tell faith it's fled the city; 
 
 Tell how the country erreth; 
 Tell manhood shakes off pity ; 
 
 Tell virtue, least preferreth. 
 And if they do reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 So, when thou hast, as I 
 
 Commanded thee, done blabbing, 
 Although to give the lie, 
 
 Deserves no less than stabbing; 
 Yet stab at thee who will, 
 No stab the soul can kill. 
 
 THE SILENT LOrEli. 
 
 Passions are likened best to floods 
 
 and streams. 
 The shallow murmur, but the deep 
 
 are dumb ; 
 
BEAD. 
 
 453 
 
 So, when affection yields discourse, 
 
 it seems 
 Tlie bottom is but shallow whence 
 
 they come ; 
 They that are rich in words, must 
 
 needs discover 
 Tliey are but poor in that which 
 
 maltes a lover. 
 
 Wrong not, sweet mistress of my 
 heart, 
 
 The merit of true passion ; 
 "With thinking that he feels no smart 
 
 That sues for no compassion. 
 
 Since, if my plaints were not to ap- 
 prove 
 
 The conquest of thy beauty, 
 It comes not from defect of love, 
 
 Bat fear to exceed my duty. 
 
 For knowing not I sue to serve 
 A saint of such perfection 
 
 As all desire, but none deserve 
 A place in her affection, 
 
 I rather choose to want relief 
 Than venture the revealing; 
 
 Where glory recommends the grief. 
 Despair disdains the healing. 
 
 Silence in love betrays more woe 
 Than words, though ne'er so witty; 
 
 A beggar that is dumb, you know, 
 May challenge double pity. 
 
 Then WTong not, dearest to my heart, 
 My love for secret passion ; 
 
 He smarteth most who hides his 
 smart 
 And sues for no compassion. 
 
 Thomas Buchanan Read. 
 
 SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 
 
 Up from the south at break of day, 
 Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
 The aifrighted air with a shudder 
 
 bore, 
 Like a herald in haste, to the chief- 
 tain's door. 
 The terrible grumble and rumble and 
 
 roar. 
 Telling the battle was on once more. 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 And wider still those billows of war 
 Thundered along the horizon's bar; 
 And louder yet into Winchester 
 
 rolled 
 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled. 
 Making the blood of the listener cold 
 As he thought of the stake in that 
 
 fiery fray, 
 Witli Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 But there is a road from Winchester 
 
 town, 
 A good, broad highway, leading 
 
 down ; 
 
 And there, through the flash of the 
 
 morning light, 
 A steed as black as the steeds of night 
 Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. 
 As if he knew the terrible need. 
 He stretched away with the utmost 
 
 speed ; 
 Hills rose and fell, — but his heart 
 
 was gay. 
 With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs, 
 tlunidering south 
 
 The dust, like smoke from the can- 
 non's mouth; 
 
 Or the trail of a comet , sweeping 
 faster and faster, [disaster. 
 
 Foreboding to traitors the doom of 
 
 The heart of the steed and the heart 
 of the master 
 
 Were beating, like prisoners assault- 
 ing their walls, [calls; 
 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field 
 
 Every nerve of the charger was 
 strained to full play, 
 
 Witli Sheridan only ten miles away. 
 
 
Under his spurning feet, tlie road 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
 And tlie landscape sped away behind, 
 Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 
 And the steed, like a bark fed with 
 
 furnace ire. 
 Swept on, with his wild eyes full of 
 
 fire; 
 But, lo! he is nearing his heart's 
 
 desire. 
 He is snuffing the smoke of the roar- 
 ing fray. 
 With Sheridan only five miles away : 
 
 The first that the General saw were 
 the groups 
 
 Of stragglers, and then the retreating 
 troops ; 
 
 What was done, — what to do, — a 
 glance told him both, 
 
 And, striking his spurs with a terri- 
 ble oath. 
 
 He dashed down the line mid a storm 
 of huzzas. 
 
 And the wave of retreat checked its 
 course tliere, because 
 
 The sight of the master compelled it 
 to pause. 
 
 With foam and with dust the black 
 charger was gray ; 
 
 By the flash of his eye, and his nos- 
 trils' play. 
 
 He seemed to the whole great army to 
 say, 
 
 " I have brought you Sheridan all the 
 way 
 
 From Winchester down, to save the 
 day!" 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan! 
 Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
 And when their statues are placed on 
 
 high. 
 Under the dome of the Union sky. — 
 The American soldier's Temple of 
 
 Fame, — 
 There with the glorious General's 
 
 name 
 Be it said in letters both bold and 
 
 bright : 
 " Here is the steed that saved the day 
 By carrying Sheridan into the fight. 
 From Winchester, — twenty miles 
 
 away! " 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 Within the sober realm of leafless 
 trees, 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamy 
 air; 
 Like some tanned reaper, in liis hour 
 of ease. 
 When all the fields are lying brown 
 and bare. 
 
 The gray barns looking from their 
 hazy hills. 
 O'er the dmi waters widening in 
 the vales, 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the 
 mills 
 On the dull thunder of alternate 
 flails. 
 
 All sights were mellowed and all 
 sounds subdued. 
 The hills seemed further and the 
 stream sang low. 
 As in a dream the distant woodman 
 hewed 
 His winter log with many a muffled 
 blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile armed 
 with gold. 
 Their banners bright with every 
 martial hue, 
 Now stood like some sad, beaten host 
 of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest 
 blue. 
 
 On slumb'rous wings the vulture held 
 his flight ; 
 The dove scarce heard its sighing 
 mate's complaint; 
 And, like a star slow drowning in the 
 light. 
 The village church-vane seemed to 
 pale and faint. 
 
 The sentinel-cock upon the hillside 
 crew, — 
 Crew thrice. — and all was stiller 
 than before ; 
 Silent, till some replying warden blew 
 His alien horn, and then was heard 
 no more. 
 
READ. 
 
 455 
 
 Where erst the jay, within the elm's 
 tall crest, 
 Made garrulous trouble round her 
 unriedged young ; 
 And where the oriole hung her sway- 
 ing nest, 
 By every light wind like a censer 
 SAVung ; — 
 
 Where sang the noisy martens of the 
 eaves. 
 The busy swallows circling ever 
 near, — 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind be- 
 lieves. 
 An early harvest and a plenteous 
 year; — 
 
 Wliere every bird which charmed the 
 vernal feast 
 IShook the sweet skimber from its 
 wings at morn, 
 To warn the reaper of the i-osy east : — 
 All now was sunless, empty, and 
 forlorn. 
 
 Alone from out the stubble piped the 
 quail, 
 And croaked the crow through all 
 the dreamy gloom ; 
 Alone the pheasant, drumming in the 
 vale. 
 Made echo to the distant cottage 
 loom. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom upon 
 the bowers; 
 The spiders moved their thin 
 shrouds night by night. 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of 
 flowers, 
 Sailed slowly by, — passed noiseless 
 out of sight. 
 
 Amid all this — in this most cheerless 
 air, 
 And where the woodbine shed upon 
 the porch 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the year 
 stood there 
 Firing the floor with his inverted 
 torch, — 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the 
 scene. 
 The white-haired matron with mo- 
 notonous tread 
 Plied the swift wheel, and with her 
 joyless mien 
 Sat, like a fate, and watched the 
 flying thread. 
 
 She had known Sorrow, — he had 
 walked with her. 
 Oft supped, and broke the bitter 
 ashen crust; 
 And in the dead leaves still she heard 
 the stir 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the 
 dust. 
 
 While yet her cheek was bright with 
 summer bloom. 
 Her country summoned and she 
 gave her all ; 
 And twice War bowed to her his 
 sable plume, — 
 Re-gave the swords to rust upon 
 the wall. 
 
 Re-gave the swords, but not the hand 
 that drew 
 And struck for Liberty the dying 
 blow ; 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country 
 true. 
 Fell mid the ranks of the invading 
 foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel 
 went on, 
 Like the low murmm- of a hive 
 at noon ; 
 Long, but not loud, the memory of 
 the gone 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and 
 tremulous tmie. 
 
 At last the thread was snapped ; her 
 head was bowed ; 
 Life dropt the distaff through his 
 hands serene: 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her 
 careful shroud. 
 While Death and Winter closed the 
 autumn scene. 
 
456 
 
 BEAD. 
 
 THE BRAVE AT HOME. 
 
 The maid who binds her warrior's 
 sash 
 With smile that well her pain dis- 
 sembles, 
 The while beneath her drooping lash 
 One stari-y tear-drop hangs and 
 trembles, [tear, 
 
 Though Heaven alone records the 
 And Fame shall never know her 
 story, 
 Her heart has shed a drop as dear 
 As e'er bedewed the field of glory! 
 
 The wife who girds her husband's 
 sword, 
 Mid little ones who weep or wonder, 
 And bravely speaks the cheering 
 word. 
 What though her heart be rent 
 asmider. 
 Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear 
 The bolts of death around him 
 rattle. 
 Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er* 
 Was poured upon the field of battle ! 
 
 The mother who conceals her grief 
 While to her breast her son she 
 presses, 
 Then breathes a few brave words and 
 brief, 
 Kissing the patriot brow she blesses. 
 With no one but her secret God 
 To know the pain that weighs 
 upon her, 
 Sheds holy blood as e' er the sod 
 Received on Freedom's field of 
 honor ! 
 
 DIUFTIXG. 
 
 My soul to-day 
 
 Is far away. 
 Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 
 
 My winged boat, 
 
 A bii'd afloat. 
 Swims round the purple peaks re- 
 mote : — 
 
 Round purijle peaks 
 It sails, and seeks 
 Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 
 
 Where high rocks throw, 
 Through deeps below, 
 A duplicated golden glow. 
 
 Far, vague, and dim 
 
 The mountains swim; 
 While, on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
 
 With outstretched hands, 
 
 The gray smoke stands 
 O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 
 
 Here Ischia smiles 
 
 O'er liquid miles; 
 And yonder, bluest of the isles, 
 
 Calm Cajiri waits. 
 
 Her sapphire gates 
 Beguiling to her bright estates. 
 
 I heed not, if 
 
 My rippling skiff 
 Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ; — 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Under the walls of Paradise. 
 
 Under the walls 
 
 Where swells and falls 
 The bay's deep breast at intervals, 
 
 At peace I lie. 
 
 Blown softly by, 
 A cloud upon this liquid sky. 
 
 The day, so mild, 
 
 Is Heaven's own child. 
 With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; — 
 
 The airs I feel 
 
 Around me steal 
 Are murmuring to the murmuring 
 keel. 
 
 Over the rail 
 
 My hand I trail 
 Within the shadow of the sail ; 
 
 A joy intense. 
 
 The cooling sense 
 Glides down my drowsy indolence. 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Where Summer sings and never 
 dies, — 
 
 O'erveiled with vines, 
 
 She glows and shines 
 Among her future oil and wines. 
 
Her children, hid 
 
 The cliffs amid. 
 Are gambolling with the gambolling 
 kid; 
 
 Or down the walls, 
 
 With tipsy calls, 
 Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 
 
 The fisher's child. 
 
 With tresses wild, 
 Unto the smooth, bright sand be- 
 guiled. 
 
 With glowing lips 
 
 Sings as she skips. 
 Or gazes at the far-off ships. 
 
 Yon deep bark goes 
 
 Where traffic blows. 
 From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — 
 
 This happier one. 
 
 Its course is run 
 From lands of snow to lands of sun. 
 
 O happy ship, 
 
 To rise and dip. 
 With the blue crystal at your lip ! 
 
 O happy crew, 
 
 My heart with you 
 Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 
 
 No more, no more 
 
 The worldly shore 
 Upbraids me with its loud uproar! 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Under the walls of Paradise ! 
 
 In lofty lines. 
 
 Mid palms and pines. 
 And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, 
 
 Sorrento swings 
 
 On sunset wings, 
 Where Tasso's spirit soars and 
 sings. 
 
 Richard Realf. 
 
 MY SLAIN. 
 
 This sweet child that hath climbed 
 upon my knee. 
 This amber-haired, fom'-summered 
 little maid. 
 With her imconscious beauty troub- 
 leth me. 
 With her low prattle maketh me 
 afraid. 
 Ah, darling! when you cling and 
 nestle so 
 You hurt me, though you do not 
 
 see me cry, 
 Nor hear the weariness with which 
 I sigh 
 For the dear babe I killed so long 
 ago. 
 I tremble at the touch of your 
 caress : 
 I am not worthy of your innocent 
 faith; 
 I, who with whetted knives of 
 worldliness. 
 Did put my own child-hearteduess to 
 death ; 
 
 Beside whose grave I pace forever- 
 more, 
 
 Like desolation on a shipwrecked 
 shore. 
 
 There is no little child within me now, 
 To sing back to the thrushes, to 
 leap up 
 When June winds kiss me, when an 
 apple-bough 
 Laughs into blossoms, or a butter- 
 cup 
 Plays with the sunshine, or a violet 
 Dances in the glad dew. Alas! 
 
 alas! 
 The meaning of the daisies in the 
 grass 
 I have forgotten; and if my cheeks 
 are wet. 
 It is not wath the blitheness of the 
 child. 
 But with the bitter sorrow of sad 
 years. 
 O moaning life ! with life irrecou- 
 ciled ; 
 
458 
 
 RICHARDSON. 
 
 O backward-looking thought I O pain I 
 
 O tears ! 
 For us tliere is not any silver sound 
 Of rhythmic wontlers springing from 
 
 the ground. 
 
 Woe worth the knowledge and the 
 bookish lore 
 AVhich makes men mummies; 
 weighs out every grain 
 Of that which was miraculous before, 
 And sneers the heart down with 
 the scotring brain ; 
 AVoe worth the peering, analytic 
 days 
 
 That dry the tender juices in the 
 
 breast, 
 And put the thunders of the Lord 
 to test, [praise, 
 
 So that no marvel must be, and no 
 
 Nor any God except Necessity. 
 "What can ye give my poor stained 
 life in lieu 
 Of this dead cherub which I slew 
 for ye ! 
 Take back your doubtful wisdom and 
 renew [dunce, 
 
 My early foolish freshness of the 
 AVhose simple instincts guessed the 
 heavens at once. 
 
 Charles F. 
 
 AMENDS. 
 
 Think not your duty done when, sad 
 and tearful, 
 Your heart recounts its sins, 
 And praying God for pardon, weak 
 and fearful. 
 Its better life begins, 
 
 Nor rest content when, braver grown 
 and stronger. 
 Your days are sweet and pure. 
 Because you follow evil ways no 
 longer, 
 In Christ's defence secure. 
 
 Bethink you then, but not with fruit- 
 less ruing, 
 — That bids the past be still. 
 But what yovn- life has wrought to 
 men's undoing. 
 By influence for ill. 
 
 Go forth, and dare not rest until the 
 morrow. 
 But, lest it l)e too late, 
 Seek out the hearts whose weight of 
 sin and sorrow 
 Through you has grown more 
 great. 
 
 Take gifts to all of love and repara- 
 tion. 
 Or if it may not be, 
 
 Richardson. 
 
 Pray Christ, with ceaseless lips, to 
 send salvation 
 Till each chained soul be free. 
 
 WORSHIP. 
 
 Bkaa^e spirit, that will brook no in- 
 tervention. 
 But thus alone before thy God dost 
 stand. 
 Content if he but see thy heart's in- 
 tention, — 
 Why spurn the suppliant knee and 
 outstretched hand ? 
 
 Sweet soul, that kneelest in the sol- 
 emn gloiy 
 Of yon cathedral altar, while the 
 prayer 
 Of priest or bishop tells thine own 
 heart's story, — 
 Why think that they alone heaven's 
 keys may bear ? 
 
 Man worships with the heart; for 
 wheresoever 
 One burning pulse of heartfelt hom- 
 age stirs. 
 There God shall straightway find his 
 own, and never 
 In church or desert, miss his wor- 
 shippers. 
 
ROBEBTS. 
 
 459 
 
 PA TIESCE. 
 
 If, when you labor all the day, 
 You see its minutes slip away 
 With joy unfound, witli work undone, 
 And hope descending with the sun, 
 
 Then cheerily lie down to rest: 
 The longest work shall be the best; 
 And when the mori'ow greets your 
 
 eyes, 
 With strong and patient heart arise. 
 
 For Patience, stern and leaden-eyed, 
 Looks far where f utm-e joys abide ; 
 Nor sees short sadness at her feet. 
 For sight of triumpli long and sweet. 
 
 IMITATIOX. 
 
 Where shall we find a perfect life, 
 
 whereby 
 To shape our lives for all eternity '? 
 
 This man is great and wise ; the world 
 reveres him, 
 Reveres, but cannot love his heart 
 of stone ; 
 And so it dares not folIo\\-, though it 
 fears him. 
 But bids him walk his mountain 
 path alone. 
 
 That man is good and gentle ; all men 
 love him, 
 Yet dare not ask his feeble arm for 
 aid; 
 The world's best work is ever far 
 above him. 
 He shrinks beneath the storm- 
 capped mountain shade. 
 
 O loveless strength! O strengthless 
 love! the Master 
 Whose life shall shape our lives is 
 not as thou: 
 Sweet Friend in peace, strong Saviour 
 in disaster, 
 Our heart of hearts enfolds thine 
 image now ! 
 
 Be Christ's the fair and perfect life 
 
 whereby 
 We shape our lives for all eternity. 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 A HUNDRED noble wishes fill my 
 heart, 
 I long to help each soul in need of 
 aid; 
 In all good works my zeal would have 
 its part, 
 Before no weight of toil it stands 
 afraid. 
 
 But noble wishes are not nol:)le 
 deeds. 
 And he does least who seeks to do 
 the whole; 
 Who works the best, his simplest 
 duties heeds, 
 Who moves the world, first moves 
 a single soul. 
 
 Then go, my heart, thy plainest work 
 begin, 
 Do first not what thou canst, but 
 what thou must ; 
 Build not upon a corner-stone of sin. 
 Nor seek great works imtil thou 
 first be just. 
 
 Sarah Roberts. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE GliASS. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping 
 everywhere ; 
 By the dusty roadside, 
 On the sunny hill-side. 
 Close by the noisy brook, 
 
 In every shady brook, 
 I come creeping, creeping eveiy- 
 where. 
 
 Here I come creeping, smiling every- 
 where ; 
 All around the open door. 
 
460 
 
 ROGERS. 
 
 Where sit the aged poor; 
 Here where the children play, 
 In the hright and merry May, 
 I come creeping, creeping every- 
 where. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
 where ; 
 In the noisy city street, 
 My pleasant face you'll meet, 
 Cheering the sick at heart 
 Toiling his busy part — 
 Silently creeping, creeping everj^- 
 where. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
 where ; 
 You cannot see me coming. 
 Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 
 For in the starry night. 
 And the glad morning light, 
 
 I come quietly creeping everywhere. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
 where ; 
 More welcome than the flowers 
 
 In summer's pleasant hours; 
 The gentle cow is glad, 
 And the merry bird not sad. 
 To see me creeping, creeping every- 
 where. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
 where ; 
 When you're numbered with the 
 
 dead 
 In your still and narrow bed, 
 In the happy spring I'll come 
 And deck your silent home — 
 Creeping, silently creei)iug every- 
 where. 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping every- 
 where ; 
 My humble song of praise 
 ]Most joyfully I raise 
 To Him at whose command 
 I beautify the land. 
 Creeping, silently creeping every- 
 where. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 Si.r Poems entitled by the author, '•^Reflections." 
 
 THE PEHVEIISION OF GREAT 
 GIFTS. 
 
 Alas, to our discomfort and his own, 
 
 Oft are the greatest talents to be found 
 
 In a fool's keeping. For what else 
 is he, 
 
 However worldly wise and worldly 
 strong, 
 
 Who can pervert and to the worst 
 abuse 
 
 The noblest means to serve the no- 
 blest ends ? 
 
 Who can employ the gift of elo- 
 quence. 
 
 That sacred gift, to dazzle and de- 
 lude ; 
 
 Or, if achievement in the field be his. 
 
 Climb but to gain a loss, suffering 
 how much. 
 
 And how much more inflicting! 
 Every where, 
 
 Cost what they will, such cruel freaks 
 
 are played ; 
 And hence tlie turmoil in this world 
 
 of ours, 
 The turmoil never ending, still be- 
 ginning, 
 The wailing and the tears. — When 
 
 Ccesar came. 
 He who could master all men but 
 
 himself, 
 Who did so much and could so well 
 
 record it; [part, 
 
 Even he, the most applauded in his 
 Who, when he spoke, all things 
 
 summed up in him, 
 Spoke to convince, nor ever, when 
 
 he fought, 
 Fought but to conquer, — what a life 
 
 was his. 
 Slaying so many, to be slain at last; 
 A life of trouble and incessant toil, 
 And all to gain what is far better 
 
 missed! 
 
ROGERS. 
 
 461 
 
 HEART SUPERIOR TO HEAD. 
 
 The heart, tlie^' say, is wiser tlian 
 
 tlie schools: 
 And well they may. All that is great 
 
 in thouglit, 
 That strikes at once as with electric 
 
 tire, 
 And lifts us, as it were, from earth 
 
 to heaven. 
 Comes from the heart; and who con- 
 fesses not 
 Its voice as sacred, nay, almost di- 
 vine. 
 When inly it declares on what we 
 
 do. 
 Blaming, approving ? Let an erring 
 
 ^\orkl 
 Judge as it will, we care not while 
 
 we stand 
 Acquitted there; and oft, wiien 
 
 clouds on clouds 
 Compass us round and not a track 
 
 appears. 
 Oft is an upright heart the surest 
 
 guide. 
 Surer and better than the subtlest 
 
 head ; 
 ytill with its silent counsels through 
 
 the dark 
 Onward and onward leading. 
 
 ON A CHILD. 
 
 This child, so lovely and so cherub- 
 like, 
 
 (No fairer spirit in the heaven of 
 heavens) 
 
 Say, must he know remorse ? Must 
 passion come. 
 
 Passion in all or any of its shapes. 
 
 To cloud and sully what is now so 
 pure ? 
 
 Yes, come it must. For who, alas! 
 has lived, 
 
 Nor in the watches of tlie night re- 
 called 
 
 Words he has wished unsaid and 
 deeds undone ? 
 
 Yes, come it nuist. But if, as we 
 may hope. 
 
 He learns ere long to discipline liis 
 mind, 
 
 And onward goes, humbly and cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 Assisting them that faint, weak 
 though he be, 
 
 And in his trying hours trusting in 
 God,— 
 
 Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still ; 
 
 For what was innocence will then be 
 virtue. 
 
 MAN'S RESTLESSNESS. 
 
 Man to the last is but a froward 
 
 child ; 
 So eager for the future, come what 
 
 may, 
 And to the present so insensible ! 
 Oh, if he could in all things as he 
 
 would. 
 Years would as days, and hours as 
 
 moments, be; 
 He would, so restless is his spirit 
 
 here. 
 Give wings to time, and wish his life 
 
 away ! 
 
 THE SELFISH. 
 
 Oil, if the selfish knew how much 
 
 they lost. 
 What would they not endeavor, not 
 
 endure, 
 To imitate, as far as in them lay, 
 Ilim who liis wisdom and his power 
 
 employs 
 In making others happy ! 
 
 EXHORTATION TO MARRIAGE. 
 
 Hence to the altar and with her 
 thou lov'st. 
 
 With her who longs to strew thy way 
 with flowers; 
 
 Nor lose the blessed privilege to give 
 
 Birth to a race immortal as your- 
 selves. 
 
 Which trained by you, shall make a 
 heaven on earth. 
 
 And tread the path that leads from 
 earth to heaven. 
 
462 
 
 ROGERS. 
 
 [From Human Li/'e.] 
 
 THE PASSAGE FROM BIRTH TO 
 AGE. 
 
 And such is Human Life ; so, glid- 
 ing on, 
 
 It glimmers like a meteor, and is 
 gone ! 
 
 Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as 
 strange, 
 
 As full, methinks, of wild and won- 
 drous change. 
 
 As any that the wandering tribes 
 require, 
 
 Stretched in the desert round their 
 evening fire ; 
 
 As any sung of old in hall or bower 
 
 To liiinstrel-harps at midnight's 
 witching hour! 
 Born in a trance, we wake, ob- 
 serve, inquire; 
 
 And the green earth, the azure sky 
 admire. 
 
 Of elfin-size, — for ever as we rim. 
 
 We cast a longer shadow in the sun! 
 
 And now a charm, and now a grace 
 is won! 
 
 We grow in stature, and in wisdom 
 too! 
 
 And, as new scenes, new objects rise 
 to view. 
 
 Think nothing done while aught re- 
 mains to do. 
 Yet, all forgot, how oft the eyelids 
 close. 
 
 And from the slack hand drops the 
 gathered rose ! 
 
 How oft, as dead, on the warm turf 
 we lie, 
 
 While many an emmet comes with 
 curious eye ; 
 
 And on her nest the watchful wren 
 sits by ! 
 
 Nor do we speak or move, or hear or 
 see; 
 
 So like what once we were, and once 
 again shall be ! 
 And say, how soon, where, blithe 
 as innocent. 
 
 The boy at sunrise carolled as he 
 went. 
 
 An aged pilgrim on his staff shall 
 lean, 
 
 Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the 
 green ; 
 
 The man himself how altered, not 
 the scene ! 
 
 Now journeying home with nothing 
 but the name; 
 
 Wayworn and spent, another and 
 the same ! 
 
 No eye observes the growth or the 
 decay. 
 
 To-day we look as we did yesterday; 
 
 And we shall look to-morrow as to- 
 day. 
 
 [From Human Life.] 
 TRUE LWIOX. 
 
 Then before all they stand, — the 
 holy vow 
 
 And ring of gold, no fond illusions 
 now. 
 
 Bind her as his. Across the thresh- 
 old led, 
 
 And every tear kissed off as soon as 
 shed. 
 
 His house she enters, — there to be a 
 light 
 
 Shining within, when all without is 
 night ; 
 
 A guardian-angel o'er his life presid- 
 ing, 
 
 Doubling his pleasures, and his cares 
 dividing; 
 
 Winning him back, when mingling 
 in the throng. 
 
 From a vain Avorld we love, alas, too 
 long. 
 
 To fireside happiness, and hom-s of 
 ease 
 
 Blest with that charm, the certainty, 
 to please. 
 
 How oft her eyes read his ; her gentle 
 mind 
 
 To all his v^ishes, all his thoughts 
 inclined ; 
 
 Still subject, — ever on the watch to 
 borrow 
 
 Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his 
 sorrow. 
 
 The soul of music slumbers in the 
 shell. 
 
 Till waked and kindled by the mas- 
 ter's spell; 
 
ROGERS. 
 
 463 
 
 And feeling hearts, — touch them hut 
 
 rightly, — pour 
 A thousand melodies unheard before ! 
 
 [From Human Life.] 
 AGE. 
 
 Age has now 
 
 StamjDed with its signet that ingenu- 
 ous brow: 
 And. "mid his old hereditary trees. 
 Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits 
 
 and sees 
 His children's children playing roiuid 
 
 his knees : 
 Then happiest, youngest, when the 
 
 quoit is flung, 
 AVhen side by side the archers' bows 
 
 are strung; 
 His to prescribe the place, adjudge 
 
 the j)rize, [energies 
 
 Envying no more the young their 
 Than tliey an old man when his 
 
 words are wise; 
 His a delight how pm'e . , . with- 
 out alloy; 
 Strong in their strength, rejoicing in 
 
 their joy I [repay 
 
 Xow in their turn assisting, they 
 
 The anxious cares of many and many 
 
 a day ; 
 And now by those he loves relieved, 
 
 restored, 
 His very wants and weaknesses afford 
 A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks, 
 Leaning on them, how oft he stops 
 
 and talks, 
 While they look up ! Their questions, 
 
 their replies. 
 Fresh as the welling waters, round 
 
 him rise, 
 Gladdening his spirit; and, his theme 
 
 the past, 
 How eloquent he is! His thoughts 
 
 flow fast ; 
 And, while his heart (oh, can the 
 
 heart grow old ? 
 False are the tales that in the world 
 
 are told!) 
 Swells in his voice, he knows not 
 
 where to end; 
 Like one discoursing of an absent 
 
 friend. 
 
 But there are moments which he 
 calls his own. 
 
 Then, never less alone than when 
 alone. 
 
 Those whom he loved so long and 
 sees no more. 
 
 Loved and still loves, — not dead, — 
 but gone before. 
 
 He gathers romid him; and revives 
 at will 
 
 Scenes in his life, — that breathe en- 
 chantment still, — 
 
 That come not now at dreary inter- 
 vals, — 
 
 But where a light as from the blessed 
 falls, 
 
 A light such guests bring ever, — pure 
 and holy, — 
 
 Lapping the soul in sweetest melan- 
 choly ! 
 
 — Ah, then less willing (nor the 
 choice condemn) 
 
 To live with others than to think of 
 them I 
 
 [From The Pleasures of Memory.] 
 MEMOIi Y. 
 
 Thou first, best friend that heaven 
 
 assigns below 
 To soothe and sweeten all the cares 
 
 we know ; 
 Whose glad suggestions still each 
 
 vain alarm. 
 When natm-e fades and life forgets 
 
 to chann ; 
 Thee woidd the Muse invoke! — to 
 
 thee belong 
 The sage's precept and the poet's 
 
 song. 
 What softened views thy magic glass 
 
 reveals. 
 When o'er the landscape time's meek 
 
 twilight steals ! 
 As when in ocean sinks the orb of 
 
 day. 
 Long on the wave reflected lustres 
 
 play; 
 Thy tempered gleams of happiness 
 
 resigned 
 Glance on the darkened mirror of 
 
 the mind. 
 
464 
 
 BOSSETTI. 
 
 Hail, memory, hail ! in thy exhaust- 
 less mine 
 
 From age to age unnumbered treas- 
 ures shine ! 
 
 Thought and her shadowy brood thy 
 call obey. 
 
 And place and time are subject to 
 thy sway ! 
 
 Thy pleasures most we feel, when 
 most alone; 
 
 The only pleasures we can call our 
 own. 
 
 Lighter than air, hope's summer 
 visions die. 
 
 If but a fleeting cloud obscure the 
 sky; 
 
 If but a beam of sober reason play, 
 
 Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts 
 away! 
 
 But can the wiles of art, the grasp of 
 power 
 
 Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent 
 hour ? 
 
 These, when the trembling spirit 
 wings her flight, 
 
 Pour round her path a stream of liv- 
 ing light; 
 
 And gild those pure and perfect 
 realms of rest. 
 
 Where virtue triumphs, and her sons 
 are blest! 
 
 [From The Pleasures of Memory.] 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOL-HOUSE. 
 
 The school's lone porch, with rev- 
 erend mosses gray. 
 Just tells the pensive pilgrim where 
 it lay. 
 
 Mute is the bell that rung at peep of 
 
 dawn. 
 Quickening my truant feet across the 
 
 lawn ; 
 Unheard the shout that rent the 
 
 noon-tide air, 
 When the slow dial gave a pause to 
 
 care. 
 Up springs, at every step, to claim a 
 
 tear, 
 Some little friendship formed and 
 
 cherished here; 
 And not the lightest leaf, but trem- 
 bling teems 
 With golden visions and romantic 
 
 dreams ! 
 
 [From The Pleasures of Memory.] 
 GUARDIAN SPIRITS. 
 
 Oft may the spirits of the dead 
 
 descend 
 To watch the silent slumbers of a 
 
 friend ; 
 To hover round his evening walk 
 
 unseen. 
 And hold sweet converse on the dusky 
 
 green ; 
 To hail the spot where first their 
 
 friendship grew, 
 And heaven and nature opened to 
 
 their view ! 
 Oft, when he trims his cheerful 
 
 hearth, and sees 
 A smiling circle emulous to please ; 
 There may these gentle guests de- 
 light to dwell, 
 And bless the scene they loved in 
 
 life so well! 
 
 Christina Georgina PxOssetti. 
 
 UP-HILL. 
 
 Does the road wind up-hill all the 
 way ? 
 Yes, to the very end. 
 Will the day's journey take the whole 
 long day ? 
 From morn to night, my friend. 
 
 But is there, for the night a resting- 
 place ? 
 A roof for when the slow dark 
 hoiu-s begin. 
 May not the darkness hide it from my 
 fac-e ? 
 You cannot miss that inn. 
 
BOSSETTI. 
 
 465 
 
 Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? 
 
 Those who have gone hefore. 
 Then must I knock, or call when just 
 in sight ? 
 They will not keep you standing at 
 the door. 
 
 Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and 
 weak ? 
 Of labor you shall find the sum. 
 Will there be beds for me and all 
 who seek ? 
 Yea, beds for all who come. 
 
 liEMEMBER. 
 
 Kemembei: me when I am gone 
 away, 
 Gone far away into the silent land ; 
 When you can no more hold me by 
 the hand, 
 Xor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. 
 Remember me when no more day by 
 day 
 You tell me of our future that you 
 
 planned ; 
 Only remember me; you imdcr- 
 stand (pi'Ay- 
 
 It will be late to counsel then or 
 Yet if you should forget me for a 
 while 
 And afterwards remember, do not 
 grieve: [leave 
 
 P'or if the darkness and corruption 
 A vestige of the thoughts that once 
 I had. 
 Better by far you should forget and 
 smile 
 Than that you should remember 
 and be sad. 
 
 THE FIRST SPIilXG DA V. 
 
 I WONDER if the sap is stirring yet. 
 If wintry birds are dreaming of a 
 
 mate, 
 If frozen snowdro^os feel as yet the 
 
 Sim 
 And crocus fires are kindling one by 
 
 one; 
 Sing, robin, sing; 
 I still am sore in doubt concerning 
 
 spring. 
 
 I wonder if the springtide of this 
 
 year 
 Will bring another spring both lost 
 
 and dear; 
 If heart and si^irit will find out their 
 
 spring. 
 Or if the world alone will bud and 
 
 sing : 
 Sing, hope, to me ; 
 Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for 
 
 memory. 
 
 The sap will surely quicken soon or 
 
 late. 
 The tardiest bird will twitter to a 
 
 mate ; 
 So spring must dawn again with 
 
 warmth and bloom, 
 Or in this world, or in the world to 
 
 come : 
 Sing, voice of spring, 
 Till I too blossom, and rejoice and 
 
 sinsr. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Whex I am dead, my dearest, 
 
 Sing no sad songs for me ; 
 Plant thou no roses at my head, 
 
 iSTor shady cypress tree : 
 Be the green grass above me 
 
 With showers and dewdrops wet; 
 And if thou wilt, remember. 
 
 And if thou wilt, forget. 
 
 I shall not see the shadows, 
 
 I shall not feel the rain ; 
 I shall not hear the nightingale 
 
 Sing on, as if in pain: 
 And dreaming through the twilight 
 
 That doth not rise nor set. 
 Haply I may remember. 
 
 And haply may forget. 
 
 SOUND SLEEP. 
 
 SoJiE are laughing, some are weep- 
 ing; 
 
 She is sleeping, only sleeping. 
 
 Round her rest wild flowers are 
 creeping ; 
 
 ^} 
 
466 
 
 EOSSETTL 
 
 There the wind is heaping, heaping, 
 Sweetest sweets of summer's keeping, 
 By the cornfields ripe for reaping. 
 
 There are liUes, and there bhishes 
 The deep rose, and there the thrushes 
 Sing till latest sunlight flushes 
 In the west; a fresh wind brushes 
 Through the leaves while evening 
 hushes. 
 
 There by day the lark is singing 
 And the grass and weeds are spring- 
 ing; 
 There by night the bat is winging; 
 Tliere for ever Avinds are bringing 
 Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing. 
 
 Night and morning, noon and even. 
 Their sound fills her dreams witli 
 
 Heaven : 
 The long strife at length is striven: 
 Till her grave-bands shall be riven, 
 Such is the good portion given 
 To her soul at rest and shriven. 
 
 WIFE TO HUSBAND. 
 
 Pakdon the faults in me, 
 For the love of years ago : 
 Good-bye. 
 I must drift across the sea, 
 I must sink into the snow, 
 1 must die. 
 
 You can bask in this sun, 
 You can drink wine, and eat: 
 Good-bye. 
 I must gird myself and run. 
 Though witii unready feet: 
 I must die. 
 
 Blank sea to sail upon, 
 Cold bed to sleep in: 
 Good-bye. 
 Whil(> you clasp I must be gone 
 For all your weeping: 
 I must die. 
 
 A kiss for one friend. 
 And a word for two, — 
 Good-bye : — 
 
 A lock that you must send, 
 A kindness you must do : 
 I must die. 
 
 Not a word for you. 
 Not a lock or kiss, 
 Good-bye. 
 We, one, must part in two; 
 Yerily death is this : 
 I must die. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 WiiEi^ I was dead, my spirit turned 
 To seek the much-frequented 
 house ; 
 I passed the door, and saw my friends 
 Feasting beneath green orange 
 boughs ; 
 From hand to hand they pushed the 
 wine. 
 They sucked the pulp of plum and 
 peach ; 
 They sang, they jested, and they 
 lauglied. 
 For eacii was loved of each. 
 
 I listened to their honest chat : 
 
 Said one: " To-morrow we shall be 
 Plod plod along the featureless sands, 
 
 And coasting miles and miles of 
 sea." 
 Said one: "Before the turn of tide 
 
 We will acliieve the eyrie-seat." 
 Said one: '* To-morrow shall be like 
 
 To-day, but much more sweet." 
 
 " To-morrow," said they, strong with 
 hope, 
 
 And dwelt upon tlie pleasant way: 
 " To-morrow," cried they one and all. 
 
 While no one spoke of yesterday. 
 Their life stood full at blessed noon; 
 
 I, only I, had passed away : 
 " To-morrow and to-day " they cried : 
 
 I was of yesterday. 
 
 I shivered comfortless, but cast 
 
 No chill across the tablecloth; 
 I all-forgotten shivered, sad 
 
 To stay, and yet to part how loth: 
 I passed from the familiar room, 
 
 I who from love had passed away. 
 Like the remembrance of a guest 
 
 That tarrieth but a day. 
 
 M 
 
ROSSETTL 
 
 467 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 
 
 THE SEA-LIMITS. 
 
 CoNSiDEH the sea's listless chime; 
 Time's self it is, made audible, — 
 The iniinmir of the earth's own 
 shell. 
 Secret continuance sublime 
 Is the era's end. Our sight may 
 
 pass 
 Xo furlong farther. Since time 
 was. 
 This sound hath told the lapse of 
 time. 
 
 N"o quiet which is death's, — it hath 
 The mournfulness of ancient life, 
 Enduring always at dull strife. 
 
 As the M'orld's heart of rest and 
 wrath, 
 Its painful pulse is on the sands. 
 Lost utterly, the whole sky stands 
 
 Gray and not known along its path. 
 
 Listen alone beside the sea, 
 Listen alone among the woods; 
 Those voices of twin solitudes 
 Shall have one sound alike to thee. 
 Hark where the murmurs of 
 
 thronged men 
 Surge and sink back and surge 
 again, — 
 Still the one voice of wave and tree. 
 
 Gather a shell from the strewn beach. 
 And listen at its lips; they sigh 
 The same desire and mystery, 
 
 The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
 And all mankind is thus at heart 
 Not anything but what thou art; 
 
 And earth, sea, man, are all in each. 
 
 THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. 
 
 The blessed damozel leaned out 
 From the gold bar of heaven ; 
 
 Her eyes were deeper than the depth 
 Of waters stilled at even; 
 
 She had three lilies in her hand. 
 And the stars in her hair were 
 seven. 
 
 Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
 No wrought flowers did adorn, 
 
 But a white rose of Mary's gift, 
 For service neatly woi'n ; 
 
 Her hair tliat lay along her back 
 Was yellow like ripe corn. 
 
 Her seemed she scarce had been a 
 day 
 
 One of God's choristers; 
 The wonder was not yet quite gone 
 
 From that still look of hers : 
 Albeit, to them she left, her day 
 
 Had counted as ten years. 
 
 It was the rampart of God's house 
 That she was standing on ; 
 
 By God built over the sheer depth 
 The which his space begun ; 
 
 So high, that looking downward 
 thence 
 She scarce could see the sun. 
 
 It lies in heaven, across the flood 
 
 Of ether, as a bridge. 
 Beneath, the tides of day and night 
 
 With flame and darkness ridge 
 The void, as low as where this earth 
 
 Spins like a fretful midge. 
 
 Heard hardly, some of her new 
 friends 
 
 Amid their loving games 
 Spake evermore among themselves 
 
 Their virginal chaste names; 
 And the souls mounting up to God 
 
 Went by her like thin flames ; 
 
 And still she bowed herself and 
 stopped 
 
 Out of the circling charm ; 
 Until her bosom must have made 
 
 The bar she leaned on warm, 
 And the lilies lay as if asleep 
 
 Along her bended arm. 
 
 From the fixed place of heaven she 
 saw 
 Time like a pulse shake fierce 
 Through all the worlds. Her gaze 
 still strove 
 Within the gulf to pierce 
 
468 
 
 SANQSTER. 
 
 The path; and now she spoke as 
 when 
 The stars sang in their spheres. 
 
 '* I wish that he M'ere come to me. 
 
 For he will come," she said. 
 "Have I not prayed in heaven? — 
 on earth, 
 Lord, Lord, lias he not prayed ? 
 Are not two prayers a perfect 
 strength ? 
 And shall I feel afraid ? " 
 
 She gazed and listened, and then said, 
 Less sad of speech than mild, — 
 
 "All this is when he comes." She 
 ceased. 
 The light thrilled toward her, filled 
 
 With angels in strong level flight. 
 Her eyes prayed, and she smiled. 
 
 (I saw her smile.) But soon their 
 path 
 
 Was vague in distant spheres ; 
 And then she cast her arms along 
 
 The golden barriers 
 And laid her face between her hands. 
 
 And wept. (I heard her tears. ) 
 
 LOST DAYS. 
 
 The lost days of my life until to-day. 
 What were they, could I see them on 
 
 the street 
 Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears 
 
 of wheat 
 Sown once for food but trodden into 
 
 clay ? 
 Or golden coins squandered and still 
 
 to pay ? 
 Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty 
 
 feet ? 
 Or such spilt water as in dreams 
 
 must cheat 
 The throats of men in hell, who thirst 
 
 alway ? 
 I do not see them here; but after 
 
 death 
 God knows I know the faces I shall 
 
 see, 
 Each one a murdered self, with low 
 
 last breath: 
 " I am thyself , what hast thou done 
 
 to me '?" 
 "And I — and I — thyself " — lo, each 
 
 one saith — 
 " And thou thyself to all eternity! " 
 
 Margaret E. Sangster. 
 
 OUR OWN. 
 
 If I had known in the mornin^^ 
 
 How wearily all the day [mind 
 The words unkind would trouble my 
 
 That I said when you went away, 
 I had been more careful, darling. 
 
 Nor given you needless jjain ; " 
 But we vex our own with look and 
 tone 
 
 We may never take back again. 
 
 For though in the quiet evening 
 
 You may give me the kiss of peace, 
 Yet it well might be that never for me 
 
 The pain of the heart should cease I 
 How many go forth at morning 
 
 AVho never come home at night ! 
 And hearts have broken forliarsh 
 words spoken. 
 
 That sorrow can ne'er set right. 
 
 We have careful thought for the 
 stranger. 
 
 And smiles for the sometime guest ; 
 But oft for our own the bitter tone, 
 
 Though we love our own the best. 
 Ah! lips with the curve impatient. 
 
 Ah ! brow with the shade of scorn, 
 'Twere a cruel fate, were the night 
 too late 
 
 To mado the work of the morn ! 
 
 SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY. 
 
 Because in a day of my days to 
 come 
 There waiteth a grief to be. 
 Shall my heart grow faint, and my 
 lips be dumb 
 In this day that is bright for me ? 
 
SAROENT. 
 
 469 
 
 Because of a subtle sense of pain, 
 Like a pulse-beat threaded through 
 
 The bliss of uiy thought, shall 1 dare 
 refrain 
 From delight in the pure and true ? 
 
 In the harvest fields shall I cease to 
 glean 
 Since the summer bloom has sped ? 
 Shall I veil mine eyes to the noon- 
 day sheen [fled ? 
 Since the dew of the morn hath 
 
 Nay, phantom ill with the warning 
 hand 
 Nay, ghosts of the weary past, 
 
 Serene, as in armor of faith, I stand, 
 You may not hold me fast. 
 
 Your shadows across my sun may 
 fall, 
 But as bright the sun shall shine. 
 For I walk in a light ye cannot 
 pall. 
 The light of the King Divine. 
 
 And whatever the shades from day to 
 day, 
 I am sure that His name is Love, 
 And He never will let me lose my 
 way 
 To my rest in His home above. 
 
 Epes Sargent. 
 
 SOUL OF MY SOUL. 
 
 SouT. of my soul, impart 
 
 Thy energy divine! 
 Inform and fill this languid heart, 
 
 And make Thy purpose mine. 
 Thy voice is still and small. 
 
 The world's is loud and rude; 
 Oh, let me hear Thee over all. 
 
 And be, through love, renewed. 
 
 Give me the mind to seek 
 
 Thy perfect will to know ; 
 And lead me, tractable and meek. 
 
 The way I ought to go. 
 Make quick my spirit's ear 
 
 Thy faintest word to hear; 
 Soul of my soul ! be ever near 
 
 To guide me in my need. 
 
 A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 
 
 A LIFE on the ocean wave, 
 
 A home on the rolling deep; 
 Where the scattered waters rave, 
 
 And the winds their revels keep! 
 Like an eagle caged, I pine 
 
 On this dull, imehanging shore: 
 Oh, give me the flashing brine. 
 
 The spray and the tempest's roar! 
 
 Once more on the deck I stand. 
 
 Of my own swift-gliding craft: 
 Set sail! farewell to the land! 
 
 The gale follows fair abaft, 
 We shoot through the sparkling foam 
 
 Like an ocean-bird set free ; — 
 Like the ocean-bird, our home 
 
 We'll find far out on the sea. 
 
 The land is no longer in view, 
 
 The clouds have begun to frown ; 
 But with a stout vessel and crew, 
 
 We'll say. Let the storm come 
 down ! 
 And the song of our hearts shall be. 
 
 While the winds and the waters 
 rave, 
 A home on the rolling sea ! 
 
 A life on the ocean wave ! 
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 " Forget me not ? " Ah, words of 
 useless warning 
 To one whose heart is henceforth 
 memory's shrine! 
 Sooner the skylark might forget the 
 morning, 
 Than I forget a look, a tone of 
 thine. 
 
 
470 
 
 SARGENT. 
 
 Sooner the sunflower might forget 
 to waken 
 When the first radiance hghts the 
 eastern hill, 
 Than I, by daily thoughts of thee 
 forsaken, 
 Feel, as they kindle, no expanding 
 thrill. 
 
 Oft, when at night the deck I'm pac- 
 ing lonely 
 Or when I pause to watch some 
 fulgent star. 
 Will Contemplation be retracing only 
 Thy form, and fly to greet thee, 
 though afar. 
 
 When storms unleashed, with fearful 
 clangor sweeping, 
 Drive our strained bark along the 
 hollowed sea. 
 When to the clouds the foam-topped 
 waves are leaping. 
 Even then I'll not forget, beloved 
 one, thee! 
 
 Thy image in my sorrow-shaded 
 
 hours. 
 
 Will, like a sunburst on the watei-s, 
 
 shine; [flowers 
 
 'Twill be as grateful as the breath of 
 
 From some green island wafted 
 
 o'er the brine. 
 
 And O sweet lady, when, from home 
 departed, 
 I count the leagues between us with 
 a sigh, — 
 When, atthe thought, perchance a 
 tear has started, 
 May I not dream in heart thou'rt 
 sometimes nigh? 
 
 Ay, thou wilt, sometimes, when the 
 wine-cup passes. 
 And friends are gathering round in 
 festal glee. 
 While bright eyes flash, as flash the 
 brimming glasses, 
 Let silent Memory pledge one 
 health to me. 
 
 Farewell! My fatherland is disap- 
 pearing [sight; 
 Faster and faster from my baffled 
 
 The winds rise wildly, and thick 
 clouds are rearing 
 Their ebon flags, that hasten on 
 the night, 
 
 Farewell! The pilot leaves us; sea- 
 ward gliding. 
 Our brave ship dashes through the 
 foamy swell ; 
 
 But Hope, lorever faithful and abid- 
 
 iiig' 
 Hears distant welcomes in this last 
 farewel*! ! 
 
 A THOUGHT OF THE PAST. 
 
 I AVAKF,i> from slumber at the dead 
 of night. 
 Moved by a dream too heavenly 
 fair to last — 
 A dream of boyhood's season of de- 
 light; 
 It flashed along the dim shapes of 
 the past; 
 And, as I mused upon its strange 
 appeal. 
 Thrilling me with emotions unde- 
 flned, 
 Old memories, bursting from Time's 
 icy seal. 
 Hushed, like sun-stricken fountains 
 on my mind. 
 Scenes where my lot was cast in life's 
 young day ; 
 My favorite haunts, the shores, the 
 ancient woods. 
 Where, with my schoolmates, I was 
 wont to stray ; 
 Green, sloping lawns, majestic soli- 
 tudes — 
 All rose to view, more beautiful than 
 
 then; — 
 They faded, and I wept — a child 
 again ! 
 
 THE SPRING-TIME WILL RETURN. 
 
 The birds are mute, the bloom is fled, 
 Cold, cold, the north winds blow; 
 
 And radiant summer lieth dead 
 Beneath a shroud of snow. 
 
 Sweet summer! well may we regret 
 Thy brief, too brief sojourn ; 
 
SAB GENT. 
 
 471 
 
 But, while we grieve, we'll not forget, 
 The spring-time will return ! 
 
 Dear friend, the hills rise bare and 
 bleak 
 That bound thy future years ; 
 Clouds veil the sky, no golden streak, 
 
 No rainbow light appears; 
 Mischance has tracked thy fairest 
 schemes. 
 To wreck — to whelm — to burn ; 
 But wintry-dark though Fortune 
 seems. 
 The spring-time will return ! 
 
 Beloved one! where no sunbeams 
 shine 
 Thy mortal frame we laid ; 
 But oh, thy spirit's form divine 
 
 Waits no sepulchral shade ! 
 No, by those hopes which, plumed 
 with light, 
 The sod, exulting, spurn. 
 Love's paradise sliall bloom more 
 bright — 
 The Spi'ing-time will return ! 
 
 A SUMMER NOON AT SEA. 
 
 A HOLY stillness, beautiful and deep, 
 Keigns in the air and broods upon 
 the ocean ; 
 The \Yorn-out winds are quieted to 
 sleep. 
 And not a wave is lifted into mo- 
 tion. 
 
 The sea-bird skims along the glassy 
 tide, 
 With sidelong flight and wing of 
 glittering whiteness, 
 Or floats upon the sea, outstretching 
 wide 
 A sheet of gold in the meridian 
 brightness. 
 
 Our vessel lies, unstirred by wave or 
 blast, 
 As she were moored to lier dark 
 shadow seeming. 
 
 Her pennon twined around the taper- 
 ing mast. 
 And her loose sails like marble 
 drapery gleaming. 
 
 How, at an hour like this, the unruf- 
 fled mind 
 Partakes the quiet that is shed 
 around us ! 
 As if the Power tliat chained the im- 
 patient wind 
 With the same fetter of repose had 
 bomid us ! 
 
 TROPICAL WEATHER. 
 
 Now' we're afloat upon the tropic sea: 
 Here Summer holdeth a perpetual 
 reign. 
 How flash the waters in their bound- 
 ing glee ! 
 The sky's soft purple is without a 
 stain. 
 Full in our wake the smooth, warm 
 trade-winds blowing. 
 To their unvarying goal still faith- 
 ful run ; 
 And, as we steer, with sails before 
 them flowing. 
 Nearer the zenith daily climbs the 
 sun. 
 The startled flying-fish around us 
 skim. 
 Glossed like the humming-bird, 
 with rainbow dyes ; 
 And, as they dip into the water's 
 brim. 
 Swift in pursuit the preying dol- 
 phin hies. 
 All, all is fair; and gazing round, we 
 
 feel 
 Over the yielding sense the torrid 
 languor steal. 
 
 CUBA. 
 
 What sounds arouse me from my 
 
 slmnbers light ? 
 '•'Land ho! all Jiands, ahoij!^' 
 
 — I'm on the deck: 
 'Tis early dawn: the day-star yet is 
 
 bright ; 
 
 mm 
 
 
A few white vapory bars the zenith 
 fleclv; 
 And lo! along the horizon, bold and 
 high, 
 
 The purple hills of Cuba ! Hail, all 
 hail! 
 Isle of undying verdiu'e, with thy 
 sky 
 
 Of purest azure! Welcome, odor- 
 ous gale ! 
 
 O scene of life and joy! thou art 
 
 arrayed 
 In hues of unimagined loveliness. 
 Sing louder, brave old mariner! and 
 
 aid 
 My swelling heart its rapture to 
 
 express ; [more 
 
 For, from enclianted memory, never 
 Shall fatle this dawn sublime, this 
 
 fair, resplendent shore. 
 
 MiNOT JuDSON Savage. 
 
 PESCADERO PEBBLES. 
 
 Where slopes the beach to the set- 
 ting sun. 
 
 On the Pescadero shore, 
 For ever and ever the restless surf 
 
 Rolls up with its sullen roar. 
 
 And grasping the pebbles in white 
 hands, 
 
 And chafing theni together. 
 And grinding them against the cliffs 
 
 In stormy and sunny weather. 
 
 It gives them never any rest; 
 
 All day, all night, the pain 
 Of their long agony sobs on. 
 
 Sinks, and then swells again. 
 
 And tourists come from every clime 
 To search with eager care, 
 
 For those whose rest has been the 
 least : 
 For such have grown most fair. 
 
 But yonder, I'ound a point of rock, 
 In a quiet, sheltered cove. 
 
 Where storm ne'er breaks, and sea 
 ne'er comes. 
 The tourists never rove. 
 
 The pebbles lie 'neath the sunny sky 
 
 Quiet f oi'evermore ; 
 In dreams of everlasting peace 
 
 They sleep upon the shore. 
 
 But ugly, and rough, and jagged still. 
 Are they left by the passing years ; 
 
 For they miss the beat of angry 
 storms, 
 And the sm-f that drips in tears. 
 
 The hard turmoil of the pitiless sea 
 Tm-ns the pebble to beauteous gem, 
 
 They who escape the agony 
 Miss also the diadem. 
 
 LIFE IN DEATH. 
 
 New being is from being ceased ; 
 
 No life is but by death ; 
 Something's expiring everywhere 
 
 To give some other breath. 
 
 There's not a flower that glads the 
 spring 
 
 I}ut blooms upon the grave 
 Of its dead i)arent seed, in which 
 
 Its forms of beauty wave. 
 
 The oak, that like an ancient tower 
 Stands massive on the heath. 
 
 Looks out upon a living world. 
 But strikes its roots in death. 
 
 The cattle on a thousand hills 
 Clip tlie sweet buds that grow 
 
 Rank from the soil enriched by herds 
 Sleeping long years below. 
 
 To-day is but a structure built 
 
 Upon dead yesterday ; 
 And Progress hews her temple-stones 
 
 From wrecks of old decay. 
 
SAXE. 
 
 473 
 
 Then monrn not death ; 'tis but a stair 
 
 Built with divinest art, 
 Up which the deathless footsteps 
 climb 
 
 Of loved ones who depart. 
 
 LIGHT ON THE CLOUD. 
 
 There's never an always cloudless 
 sky, 
 
 There's never a vale so fair, 
 But over it sometimes shadows lie 
 
 In a chill and songless air. 
 
 But never a cloud o'erhung the day. 
 
 And flung its shadows down. 
 But on its heaven-side gleamed some 
 ray 
 
 Forming a sunshine crown. 
 
 It is dark on only the downward side ; 
 
 Though rage the tempest loud, 
 And scatter its terrors far and wide. 
 
 There's light upon the cloud. 
 
 And often, when it traileth low, 
 Shutting the landscajje out. 
 
 And only the chilly east-winds blow 
 From the foggy seas of doubt. 
 
 There'll come a time, near the setting 
 sun. 
 When the joys of life seem few, 
 A rift will break in the evening dim, 
 And the golden light stream 
 through. 
 
 And the soul a glorious bridge will 
 make 
 
 Out of the golden bars. 
 And all its priceless treasures take 
 
 Where shine the eternal stars. 
 
 John Godfrey Saxe. 
 
 THE OLD MAX'S MOTTO. 
 
 " Give me a motto," said a youth 
 To one whom years had rendered 
 wise ; 
 *' Some pleasant thought, or weighty 
 truth. 
 That briefest syllables comprise ; 
 Some word'^of warning or of cheer 
 To grave upon my signet here. 
 
 "And, reverend father," said the 
 boy, 
 " Since life, they say, is ever made 
 A mingled web of grief and joy ; 
 Since cares may come and pleas- 
 ures fade, — 
 Pray, let the motto have a range 
 Of meaning matching every change." 
 
 "Sooth!" said the sire. " methinks 
 you ask 
 
 A labor something over-nice. 
 That well a finer brain might task. 
 
 What think you. lad, of this device 
 (Older than I, though I am gray). 
 'Tis simple, — ' This will pass away.' 
 
 " When wafted on by Fortune's 
 breeze. 
 In endless peace thou seem'st to 
 glide, 
 Prepare betimes for rougher seas, 
 And check the boast of foolish 
 pride ; 
 Though smiling joy is thine to-day. 
 Remember, ' This will pass away ! ' 
 
 " When all the sky is draped in black, 
 And, beaten by tempestuous gales. 
 
 Thy shuddering ship seems all a- 
 wrack. 
 Then trim again thy tattered sails ; 
 
 To grim Despair be not a prey; 
 
 Betiaink thee, ' This will pass away.' 
 
 " Thus, O my son, be not o'er-proud. 
 Nor yet cast down; judge thou 
 aright ; 
 When skies are clear, expect the 
 cloud ; 
 In darkness, wait the coming light; 
 Whatever be thy fate to-day. 
 Remember, ' This will pass away!' " 
 
474 
 
 SAXE. 
 
 I'M GROWING OLD. 
 
 My days pass pleasantly away; 
 My nights are blest with sweetest 
 sleep ; 
 I feel no symptoms of decay; 
 
 I liave no cause to mourn nor weep ; 
 My foes are impotent and shy ; 
 My friends are neither false nor 
 cold. 
 And yet, of late, I often sigh, — 
 I'm growing old! 
 
 My growing talk of olden times, 
 My growing thirst for early news, 
 
 My growing apathy to rhymes. 
 My growing love of easy shoes. 
 
 My growing hate of crowds and noise, 
 My growing fear of taking cold. 
 
 All whisper, in the plainest voice, 
 I'm growing old! 
 
 I'm growing fonder of my staff; 
 
 I'm growing dimmer in the eyes; 
 I'm growing fainter in my laugh; 
 
 I'm growing deeper in my sighs; 
 I'm growing careless of my dress; 
 I'm growing frugal of my gold; 
 I'm growing wise; I'm growing, — 
 yes,— 
 
 I'm growing old! 
 
 I see it in my changing taste; 
 
 I see it in my changing hair; 
 I see it in my growing waist; 
 
 I see it in my growing heir; 
 A thousand signs proclaim the truth. 
 
 As plain as truth was ever told. 
 That, even in my vaunted youth 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
 The tale in my reluctant ears. 
 And every boon the Hours bequeath 
 But makes me debtor to the Years I 
 E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare 
 The secret she would fain withhold ; 
 And tells me in " How young you 
 are!" 
 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 Thanks for the years ! — whose rapid 
 flight 
 My sombre Muse too sadly sings ; 
 
 Thanks for the gleams of golden 
 light 
 That tint the darkness of their 
 wings ; 
 The light that beams from out the 
 sky. 
 Those heavenly mansions to unfold 
 Where all are blest, and none may 
 sigh, 
 
 "I'm growing old!" 
 
 SOMEWHERE. 
 
 Somewhere — somewhere a happy 
 
 clime there is, 
 A land that knows not unavailing 
 
 woes, 
 ^Yhere all the clashing elements of 
 
 this 
 Discordant scene are hvished in 
 
 deep repose. 
 Somewhere — somewhere (ah me, 
 
 that land to win!) 
 In some bright realm, beyond the 
 
 farthest main. 
 Where trees of knowledge bear no 
 
 fruit of sin. 
 And buds of pleasure blossom not in 
 
 pain. 
 Somewhere — somewhere an end of 
 
 mortal strife 
 With our immortal yearnings ; nev- 
 ermore 
 The outer warring with the inner life 
 Till both are wretched! Ah, that 
 
 happy shore ! 
 Where shines for aye the soul's reful- 
 gent sun, 
 And life is love, and love and joy are 
 
 one! 
 
 LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER. 
 
 Beneath the hill you may see the 
 mill 
 Of wasting wood and crumbling 
 stone ; 
 The wheel is dripping and clattering 
 still. 
 But Jerry, the miller, is dead and 
 gone. 
 
Year after year, early and late, 
 
 Alike in summer and winter 
 weather, 
 He pecked the stones and calked the 
 gate. 
 And mill and miller grew old to- 
 gether. 
 
 "Little Jerry I" — 'twas all the 
 same, — 
 They loved him well who called 
 him so; 
 And whether he'd ever another name, 
 Nobody ever seemed to know. 
 
 'Twas, "Little Jerry, come grind my 
 rye"; 
 And '• Little Jerry, come grind my 
 wheat " ; 
 And "Little Jerry" was still the 
 cry, 
 From matron bold and maiden 
 sweet. 
 
 'Twas, "Little Jerry" on every 
 tongue, 
 And so the simple truth was told ; 
 For Jerry was little when he was 
 young. 
 And Jerry was little whon he was 
 old. 
 
 But what in size he chanced to lack. 
 That Jerry made up in being strong ; 
 
 I've seen a sack upon his back 
 As thick as the miller, and quite as 
 long. 
 
 Always busy, and always merry, 
 Always doing his very best, 
 
 A notable wag was little Jerry, 
 
 Who uttered well his standing jest. 
 
 How Jerry lived is known to fame. 
 But how he died there's none may 
 know ; 
 One autumn day the rumor came, 
 "The brook and Jerry are very 
 low." 
 
 And then 'twas whispered, mourn- 
 fully, • 
 The leech had come, and he was 
 dead ; 
 
 And all the neighbors flocked to see; 
 "Poor little Jerry!" was all they 
 said. 
 
 They laid him in his earthly bed, — 
 His miller's coat his only shroud; 
 
 " Dust to dust," the parson said. 
 And all the people wept aloud. 
 
 For he had shunned the deadly sin, 
 And not a grain of over-toll 
 
 Had ever dropped into his bin, 
 To weigh upon his parting soul. 
 
 Beneath the hill there stands the mill , 
 
 Of wasting wood and crumbling 
 
 stone; [still, 
 
 The wheel is dripping and clattering 
 
 But Jerry, the miller, is dead and 
 
 gone. 
 
 WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO KNOW? 
 A MADUIUAL. 
 
 I KNOW a girl with teeth of pearl. 
 And shoulders white as snow; 
 
 She lives, — ah! well, 
 
 I must not tell, — 
 Wouldn't you like to know ? 
 
 Her sunny hair is wondrous fair, 
 And wavy in its flow ; 
 
 Who made it less 
 
 One little tress. — 
 Wouldn't you like to know ? 
 
 Her eyes are blue (celestial hue!) 
 And dazzling in their glow; 
 
 On whom they beam 
 
 With meltiiag gleam, — 
 Wouldn' t you like to know ? 
 
 Her lips are red and finely wed, 
 Like roses ere they blow ; 
 
 What lover sips 
 
 Those dewy lips, — 
 Wouldn't you like to know ? 
 
 Her fingers are like lilies fair 
 When lilies fairest grow ; 
 
 Whose hand they press 
 
 With fond caress, — 
 Wouldn't you like to know ? 
 
476 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 Her foot is small, and has a fall 
 Like snow-flakes on the snow; 
 
 And where it goes 
 
 Beneath the rose, — 
 Wouldn't you like to know '? 
 
 She has a name, the sweetest name 
 That language can bestow. 
 
 'Twould break the spell 
 
 If I should tell, — 
 Wouldn't you like to know ? 
 
 but 
 
 TREASURE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Every coin of earthly treasure 
 
 We have lavished, upon earth, 
 For our simple worldly pleasure. 
 
 May be reckoned something worth ; 
 For the spending was not losing, 
 
 Though the purchase were 
 small; 
 It has perished with the using; 
 
 We have had it, — that is ail ! 
 
 All the gold we leave behind us 
 
 When we turn to dust again 
 (Though our avarice may blind us), 
 
 We have gathered quite in vain ; 
 Since we neither can direct it. 
 
 By the winds of fortune tossed, 
 Nor in other worlds expect it; 
 
 What we hoarded, we have lost. 
 
 But each merciful oblation — 
 
 (Seed of pity wisely sown). 
 What we gave in self-negation, 
 
 We may safely call our own ; 
 For the treasure freely given 
 
 Is the treasure that we hoard, 
 Since the angels keep in Heaven 
 
 What is lent unto the Lord I 
 
 TO MY LOVE. 
 
 ' Da mi basia. 
 
 -Catullus. 
 
 Kiss me softly, and speak to me 
 low; 
 Malice has ever a vigilant ear; 
 What if Malice were lurking near? 
 Kiss me, dear! 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low; " 
 Envy too has a watchful ear ; 
 What if Envy should chance to hear? 
 Kiss me, dear! 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low ; 
 Trust me, darling, the time is near 
 When we may love with never a 
 fear ; 
 
 Kiss me, dear! 
 Kiss me softly and speak to me low. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 [From The Lady of the Lake.] 
 S UMMER DA WN A T LOCH KA TRINE. 
 
 The summer dawn's reflected hue 
 To purple changed Loch Katrine 
 
 blue ; 
 Mildly and soft the western breeze 
 Just kissed the lake, just stirred the 
 
 trees. 
 And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 
 Trembled but dimpled not for joy; 
 The mountain shadows on her breast 
 Were neither broken nor at rest ; 
 
 In bright vnicertainty they lie. 
 Like future joys to Fancy's eye. 
 The water-lily to the light 
 Her chalice reared of silver bright; 
 The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 
 Begemmed with dew-drops, led her 
 
 fawn ; 
 gray mist left the mountain 
 
 side, 
 
 torrent showed its glistening 
 
 pride ; 
 Invisible in flecked sky, 
 The lark sent down her revelry ; 
 
 The 
 
 The 
 
A SCENE IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 Page 477. 
 
SCOTT. 
 
 477 
 
 The blackbird and the speckled 
 
 thrush 
 Good-morrow gave from brake and 
 
 bush : 
 In answer cooed the cushat dove 
 Her notes of peace, and rest, and 
 
 love. 
 
 IFrom The Lady of the Lake.] 
 A SCENE IN THE HIGHLANDS. 
 
 The western waves of ebbing day- 
 Rolled o'er the glen their level way; 
 Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
 Was bathed in floods of living hre, 
 But not a setting beam could glow 
 Within the dark ravines below, 
 Where twined the path in shadow 
 
 hid, 
 Round many a rocky pyramid. 
 Shooting abruptly from the dell 
 Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; 
 Round many an insulated mass, 
 The native bulwarks of the pass, 
 Huge as the tower which builders 
 
 vain 
 Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
 The rocky summit, split and rent. 
 Formed turret, dome, or battlement, 
 Or seemed fantastically set 
 With cupola or minaret. 
 Wild crests as pagod ever decked 
 Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
 Nor were these earth-born castles 
 
 bare. 
 Nor lacked they many a banner fair; 
 For, from tlieir shivered brows dis- 
 played. 
 Far o'er the unfathomable glade. 
 All twinkling with the dewdrops 
 
 sheen. 
 The brier-rose fell in streamers green. 
 And creeping shrubs, of thousand 
 
 dyes. 
 Waved in the west-wind's summer 
 
 sighs. 
 
 Boon nature scattered, free and wild. 
 Each plant or flower, the mountain's 
 
 child. 
 Here eglantine embalmed the air. 
 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 
 The primrose pale and violet flower. 
 Found in each cliff a narrow bower; 
 
 Fox-glove and night-shade, side by 
 
 side. 
 Emblems of punishment and pride. 
 Grouped their dark hues with every 
 
 stain 
 The weather-beaten crags retain. 
 With boughs that quaked at every 
 
 breath, 
 Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; 
 Aloft the ash and warrior oak 
 Cast anclior in the rifted rock ; 
 And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
 His shattered trunk, and frequent 
 
 flung, 
 Where seemed the cliffs to meet on 
 
 high. 
 His boughs athwart the narrowed 
 
 sky. 
 Highest of all, where white peaks 
 
 glanced. 
 Where glist'ning streamers waved 
 
 and danced. 
 The wanderer's eye could barely view 
 The summer heaven's delicious blue; 
 So wondrous wild, the whole might 
 
 seem 
 The scenery of a fairy dream. 
 
 IFrom The Lady of the Lake.} 
 A PICTURE OF ELLEN. 
 
 And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 Of finer form, or lovelier face! 
 What though the sun, with ardent 
 
 frown, 
 Had slightly tinged her cheek with 
 
 brown, — 
 The sportive toil, which, short and 
 
 light, 
 Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. 
 Served too in hastier swell to show 
 Short glimpses of a breast of snow: 
 What though no rule of courtly 
 
 grace 
 To measured mood had trained her 
 
 pace, — 
 A foot more light, a step more true. 
 Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed 
 
 the dew ; 
 E'en the slight harebell raised its 
 
 head, 
 Elastic from her airy tread ; 
 
478 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 What though upon her speech there 
 
 hung 
 The accents of her mountain 
 
 tongue, — 
 Those silver sounds so soft, so dear, 
 The hstener held his hreath to hear! 
 
 \_From The Lady of the Lake.'] 
 PATERNAL LOVE. 
 
 Some feelings are to mortals given, 
 With less of earth in them than 
 
 heaven: 
 And if there be a human tear 
 From passion's dross reiined and 
 
 clear, 
 A tear so limpid and so meek. 
 It would not stain an angel's cheek, 
 'Tis that which pious fathers shed 
 Upon a duteous daughter's head! 
 
 [From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.] 
 
 MELROSE ABBEY BY MOOX- 
 LIGHT. 
 
 If thou would' St view fair Melrose 
 
 aright. 
 Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 
 For the gay beams of lightsome day 
 Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
 When the broken arches are black in 
 
 night. 
 And each shafted oriel glimmers 
 
 white ; 
 When the cold light's imcertain 
 
 shower 
 Streams on tlie ruined central tower; 
 When buttress and butti-ess, alter- 
 nately, 
 Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
 When silver edges the imagery. 
 And the scrolls that teach thee to 
 
 live and die; 
 When distant Tweed is heard to rave. 
 And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead 
 
 man's grave. 
 Then go — but go alone the while — 
 Then view St. David's ruined pile; 
 And, home returning, soothly swear, 
 Was never scene so sad and fair! 
 
 [From The Lay of the Last Minstrel.] 
 LOVE. 
 
 In peace. Love tunes the shepherd's 
 
 reed ; 
 In war he mounts the warrior's steed ; 
 In halls, in gay attire is seen; 
 In hamlets, dances on the green. 
 Love rules the court, the camp, the 
 
 grove. 
 And men below, and saints above ; 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is 
 
 love. 
 
 True love's the gift which God has 
 
 given 
 To man alone beneath the heaven ; 
 It is not fantasy's hot fire. 
 Whose wishes, soon as gi'anted 
 
 fly; 
 
 It livetli not in fierce desire. 
 With dead desire it doth not die; 
 It is the secret sympathy, 
 The silver link, the silken tie, 
 AVhich heart to heart, and mind to 
 
 mind. 
 In body and in soul can bind. 
 
 [From- The Lay  tlie world's a stage, 
 And all the men and women merely 
 
 players ; 
 They have their exits and their en- 
 trances. 
 And one man in his time plays many 
 
 parts, 
 His acts being seven ages. At first 
 
 the infant, [arms. 
 
 Mewling and puking in his nurse's 
 And then, the whining school-boy, 
 
 with his satchel 
 And shining morning face, creeping 
 
 like snail 
 T'nwillingly to school. And then, 
 
 the lover, 
 Sighing like furnace, with a woful 
 
 ballad 
 Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, 
 
 the soldier, 
 Full of strange oaths, and bearded 
 
 like the pard, 
 Jealous in honor, sudden and quick 
 
 in quarrel ; 
 Seeking the bubble reputation 
 Even in the cannon's mouth. And 
 
 then, the justice. 
 In fair round belly, with good capon 
 
 lined. 
 With eyes severe, and beard of formal 
 
 cut, 
 Full of wise saws and modern in- 
 stances ; 
 And so he plays his part. The sixth 
 
 age shifts 
 Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, 
 With spectacles on nose, and pouch 
 
 on side; 
 Mis youthful hose well saved, a world 
 
 too wide 
 For his shrunk shanks ; and his big 
 
 manly voice. 
 Turning again towards childish 
 
 treble, pipes 
 And whistles in his sound. Last 
 
 scene of all 
 That ends this strange eventful his- 
 tory. 
 
 Is second childishness, and mere ob- 
 livion: 
 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans 
 evervthing. 
 
 [From As You Like II.] 
 INGRATITUDE. 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wiutl. 
 Thou art not so unkind 
 As man's ingratitude! 
 Thy tooth is not so keen. 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 Although thy breath be rude. 
 Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! inito the 
 
 green holly : 
 Most friendship is feigning, most 
 loving mere folly : 
 
 Then heigh-ho ! the holly ! 
 This life is most jolly. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou l)itter sky, 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 
 As benefits forgot ! 
 Though thou the waters Avarp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharp 
 
 As friend remembered not. 
 "Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho, t. 
 
 But being seasoned w'ith a gracious 
 voice. 
 
 Obscures the show of evil ? In re- 
 ligion. 
 
 What dannied error, but some sober 
 brow 
 
 Will bless it, and approve it with a 
 text. 
 
 Hiding the grossness with fair orna- 
 ment ? 
 
 There is no voice so simple, but as- 
 sumes 
 
 Some mark of virtue on its outward 
 parts. 
 
 How many cowards, whose hearts are 
 all as false 
 
48G 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their 
 chins 
 
 The beards of Hercules and frowning 
 Mars ; 
 
 Who, inward searched, have Uvers 
 white as milk ! 
 
 And these assume but valor's excre- 
 ment, 
 
 To render them redoubted. Look on 
 beauty, 
 
 And you shall see 'tis purchased by 
 the weight, 
 
 Wliich therein works a miracle in 
 nature, 
 
 Making them lightest that wear most 
 of it. 
 
 So are those crisped, snaky, golden 
 locks, 
 
 Which make such wanton gambols 
 with the wind 
 
 Upon supposed fairness, often known 
 
 To be the dowry of a second head, 
 
 The skull that bred tliem in the sep- 
 ulchre. 
 
 Thus ornament is l)ut the guiled 
 shore 
 
 To a most dangerous sea; the beau- 
 teous scarf 
 
 Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word. 
 
 The seeming truth which cunning 
 times put on 
 
 To entrap the wisest. 
 
 [From The Merchant of Venice.] 
 MERCY. 
 
 TiiK quality of mercy is not strained ; 
 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain from 
 heaven 
 
 Upon the place beneath. It is twice 
 blessed ; 
 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him 
 that takes. 
 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it be- 
 comes 
 
 The throned monarch better than his 
 crown : 
 
 His sceptre shows the force of tempo- 
 ral power. 
 
 The attribute to awe and majesty. 
 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear 
 of kings. 
 
 But mercy is above the sceptred 
 sway ; 
 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings ; 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 And earthly power doth then show 
 
 likest God's, 
 When mercy seasons justice. 
 
 [From Troilus and Cressida.'] 
 
 CONSTANT EFFOllT NECESSARY 
 TO SUPPORT FAME. 
 
 TiMK hath, my lord, a wallet at 
 
 his l)ack. 
 Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, 
 A great-sized monster for ingrati- 
 tudes : 
 Those scraps are good deeds past: 
 
 which are devoured 
 As fast as they are made, forgot as 
 
 soon 
 As done : Perseverance, dear my lord, 
 Keeps honor bright: To have done, 
 
 is to hang 
 Quite out of fashion, like a rusty 
 
 mail 
 In monumental mockery. Take the 
 
 instant way ; 
 For honor travels in a strait so nar- 
 row. 
 Where one but goes abreast: keep 
 
 then the path ; 
 For emulation hath a thousand sons, 
 That one by one pursue. If you give 
 
 way. 
 Or hedge aside from the direct forth- 
 right. 
 Like to an entered tide, they all rush 
 
 by. 
 And leave you hindmost ; — 
 Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first 
 
 rank, 
 Lie there for pavement to the abject 
 
 rear, 
 O'erruu and trampled on. Then what 
 
 they do in present. 
 Though less than yours in past, must 
 
 o'ertop yours: 
 For time is like a fashionable host 
 Tliat slightly shakes his parting guest 
 
 by the hand; 
 And with his arms outstretched, as 
 
 he would fly. 
 Grasps in the comer. Welcome ever 
 
 smiles ' 
 
SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 487 
 
 And farewell goes out sighing. O, 
 
 let not virtue seek 
 Remuneration for the thing it was; 
 For beauty, wit, 
 High birth, vigor of bone, desert in 
 
 service, 
 Love, friendship, charity, are sub- 
 jects all 
 To envious and calumniating time. 
 One touch of nature makes the whole 
 
 world kin, — 
 That all with one consent, praise new- 
 
 boi'n gauds, 
 Though they are made and moulded 
 
 of things past; 
 And give to dust, that is a little gilt, 
 More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. 
 The present eye praises the present 
 
 object: 
 Then marvel not, thou great and 
 
 complete man, 
 That all the Greeks begin to worship 
 
 Ajax; 
 .Since things in motion sooner catcli 
 
 the eye 
 Than what not stirs. 
 
 [From Henrij I'll/.] 
 LIFE'S VICISSiri'DES. 
 
 Fai!EWEli., a long farewell to all my 
 
 greatness ! 
 'I'his is the state of man: To-day he 
 
 puts forth 
 The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow 
 
 blossoms, 
 And bears his blushing honors thick 
 
 upon him ; 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing 
 
 frost. 
 And when he thinks, good easy man, 
 
 full surely 
 His greatness is a ripening, nips his 
 
 root 
 And then he falls as I do. I have 
 
 ventured. 
 Like little wanton boys, that swim on 
 
 bladders, 
 These many summers in a sea of 
 
 glory • 
 But far l)eyond my depth: my high- 
 blown pride 
 
 At length broke uutler lue; and now 
 
 has left me, 
 Weary and old with service, to the 
 
 mercy 
 Of a rude stream, that must for ever 
 
 hide me. 
 Vain pomp and glory of this world, I 
 
 hate ye ! 
 
 [From Measure for Measurc.1 
 FEAR OF DEATH. 
 
 Ay, but to die, and go we know not 
 
 where ; 
 To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; 
 Tliis sensible warm motion to become 
 A kneaded clod; and the delighted 
 
 spirit 
 To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside 
 In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed 
 
 ice; 
 To be imprisoned in the viewless 
 
 winds. 
 And blown with restless violence 
 
 rounil about 
 The pendent world: or to be worse 
 
 than worst 
 Of those, that lawless and incertain 
 
 thoughts 
 Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible! 
 The weariest and most loathed 
 
 worldly life. 
 That age, ache, penury, and impris- 
 onment 
 Can lay on nature, is a paradise 
 To what we fear of death! 
 
 [From The Tempest.] 
 EXD OF ALL EARTHLY GLORY. 
 
 Ouii revels now are ended : these our 
 
 actors, 
 As I foretold you. were all spirits, 
 
 and 
 Are melted into air, into thin air; 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this 
 
 vision. 
 The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous 
 
 palaces. 
 The solemn temples, the great globe 
 
 itself, 
 
 
Yea, all which \t inherit, shall dis- 
 solve: 
 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant 
 faded, 
 
 Leave not a rack behind! We are 
 such stuff 
 
 As dreams are made of, and our little 
 life 
 
 Is rounded with a sleep. 
 
 [From Cijmbelbie.'] 
 FEAR lYO MOUK. 
 
 Fkar no more the heat o' the sun. 
 
 Nor the furious winter's rages; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy 
 wages : 
 Oolden lads and girls all must. 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the frown o' the great. 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; 
 
 Care no more to clothe and eat. 
 To thee the reed is as the oak. 
 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must. 
 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the lightning-flash. 
 Nor th' all-dreaded thunder-stone; 
 
 Fear not slander, censure rash, 
 Thou hast finished joy and moan. 
 
 All lovers young, all lovers must. 
 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust, 
 
 [From J'euun (tnd .U/oiiis.] 
 THE HOnSE OF ADOXfS. 
 
 Look, when a painter woidd sui'pass 
 the life. 
 
 In limning out a w(>ll-proportioned 
 steed. 
 
 His art with Nature's workmanship 
 at strife, 
 
 As if the dead the living should ex- 
 ceed : 
 
 So did this horse excel a common 
 one 
 
 In shape, in courage, color, pace and 
 bone. 
 
 Hound-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks 
 
 shag and long. 
 Broad breast, full eyes, small head, 
 
 and nostrils wide. 
 High crest, short ears, straight legs, 
 
 and passing sti'ong. 
 Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, 
 
 tender hide: 
 Look, what a horse should have, he 
 
 did not lack, 
 .Save a proud rider on so proud a 
 
 back. 
 
 Sometimes he scuds far off, and then 
 he stares ; 
 
 Anon he starts at stirring of a feather, 
 
 To bid the wind a base he now pre- 
 pares 
 
 And whe'r he run, or fly, they know 
 not whether. 
 
 P'or through his mane and tail the 
 high wind sings, 
 
 Fanning the hairs, which wave like 
 feathered wings. 
 
 LOVE, THE SOLACE OF mESENT 
 CALAMITY. 
 
 "Wjiex in disgrace w ith fortune and 
 
 men's eyes, 
 I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
 And trouble deaf heaven with my 
 
 bootless cries, [fate. 
 
 And look upon myself, and curse my 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in 
 
 hope. 
 Featured like him. like him with 
 
 friends i^Qssessed, 
 Desiring this man's art, and that 
 
 man's scope, 
 AVith Avhat I most enjoy contented 
 
 least: 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost 
 
 despising. 
 Haply I think on thee, — and then 
 
 my state [ing 
 
 (Like to the lark at break of day aris- 
 Froni sullen earth) sings hynms at 
 
 heaven's gat(>: 
 For thy sweet love remembered, 
 
 such wealth brings, 
 That then I scorn to change my 
 
 state with kings. 
 
HIIAKEiSFEARE. 
 
 489 
 
 LOVE, THE RETniEVER OF PAST 
 LOSSES. 
 
 AViiEN to the sessions of sweet silent 
 
 tliought 
 I summon up remembrance of tilings 
 
 past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I 
 
 sought, 
 And with old woes new wail my dear 
 
 time's waste: 
 Then can I drown an eye, unused 
 
 to flow, 
 For precious friends hid In death's 
 
 dateless night. 
 And weep afresh love's long-since 
 
 cancelled woe, 
 And moan the expense of many a 
 
 vanished sight. 
 Then can I grieve at grievances fore- 
 gone, 
 And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er. 
 The sad account of fore-bemoaned 
 
 moan. 
 Which 1 new pay as if not paid be- 
 fore. 
 But if the while I tliiuk on thee, 
 
 dear friend. 
 All losses are restored, and sorrows 
 
 end. 
 
 They were but sweet, but figures of 
 
 delight, 
 Drawn after you, you pattern of all 
 those. 
 Yet seemed it winter still, and, you 
 
 away. 
 As with your shadow I with these 
 did play. 
 
 A'O spnrxG iriTHouT the he- 
 
 LOrED. 
 
 Fuoji you have I been absent in the 
 
 spring. 
 When proud pied April, dressed in 
 
 all his trim. 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in every 
 
 thing. 
 That heavy Saturn laughed and 
 
 leaped with him. 
 Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the 
 
 sweet smell 
 Of different tlowers in odor and in 
 
 hue, 
 Could make me any summer's story 
 
 tell, 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them 
 
 where they grew. 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the 
 
 rose : 
 
 L O VE UNAL TEE ABLE. 
 
 Let me not to the marriage of true 
 
 minds 
 Admit impediments. Love is not 
 
 love 
 Which alters when it alteration finds, 
 Or bends with the remover to re- 
 move : 
 O no ! it is an ever-fixed mark, 
 That looks on tempests, and is never 
 
 shaken ; 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 Wliose worth's unknown, although 
 
 his height be taken. 
 Love's not Time's fool, though rosy 
 
 lips and clieeks 
 Within ids bending sickle's compass 
 
 come ; 
 Love alters not with his brief hours 
 
 and weeks 
 But bears it out e'en to the edge of 
 
 doom. 
 If this be error, and uiion nn; 
 
 proved, 
 I never writ, nor no man ever 
 
 loved. 
 
 TO MY SOUL. 
 
 Poou soul, the centre of my sinful 
 earth. 
 
 Fooled by those rebel powei-s that 
 thee array. 
 
 Why dost thou pine within, and suf- 
 fer deartli. 
 
 Painting thy outward walls so costly 
 gay '? 
 
 Why so large cost, having so short a 
 lease. 
 
 Dost thou upon thy fading mansion 
 spend ? 
 
490 
 
 SHELLEY. 
 
 Shall worms, inheritors of this ex- 
 cess, 
 
 Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy 
 body's end ? 
 
 Then, soul, live thou upon thy ser- 
 vant's loss, 
 
 And let that pine to aggravate thy 
 store : 
 
 Buj terms divine in selling hours of 
 
 dross ; 
 Within be fed, without be rich no 
 more : 
 So shalt thou feed on death, that 
 
 feeds on men. 
 And, death once dead, there's no 
 more dying then. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 OXE WORD TS TOO OFTEN PRO- 
 FANED. 
 
 One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it. 
 One feeling too falsely disdained 
 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For prudence to smother. 
 And pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than that from another. 
 
 I can give not what men call love. 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above 
 
 And the heavens reject not: 
 The desire of the moth for the star, 
 
 Of the night for the morrow. 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow ? 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 V 
 
 The fountains.mingle with the river. 
 
 And the rivers with the ocean, 
 The winds of heaven mix forever 
 
 With a sweet emotion; 
 Nothing in the world is single; 
 
 All things by a- law divine 
 In one another's being mingle, — 
 
 Why not I with thine ? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven. 
 
 And the waves clasp one another; 
 No sister flower would be forgiven 
 
 If it disdained its brother; 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth. 
 
 And the nioonbeams kiss the sea; 
 What are all these kissings worth, 
 
 If thou kiss not me ? 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Haii, to thee, blithe spirit! 
 
 Bird thou never wert. 
 That from heaven, or near it, 
 
 Pourest thy full heart [art. 
 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated 
 
 Higher still and higher. 
 
 From the earth thou springest 
 Like a cloud of tire; 
 The blue deep thou wingest, 
 And singing still dost soar, and soar- 
 ing ever singest. 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the simken sun. 
 O'er which clouds are brightening. 
 Thou dost float and I'un; 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is 
 just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven, 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 
 shrill delight. 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 Of that silver sphere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 In the white dawn clear, 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is 
 there 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud. 
 As, when night is bare. 
 From one lonely clovid 
 The moon rains out her beams, and 
 heaven is overflowed. 
 
What thou art we know not; 
 
 What is most like thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 Drops so bright to see, 
 As from thy presence showers a rain 
 of melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden. 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
 heeded not: 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace-tower. 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which 
 overflows her bower: 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew. 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass, which 
 screen it from the view : 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves. 
 By warm winds deflowered. 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet 
 these heavy-winged thieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain-awakened flowers. 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy 
 music doth surpass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bii'd. 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine: 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture 
 so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal. 
 
 Or triumv)hal chant. 
 Matched with thine would be all 
 But an empty vaunt, — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some 
 hidden want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 AVhat fields, or waves, or moun- 
 tains ? 
 What shapes of sky or plain ? 
 What love of thine own kind ? what 
 ignorance of pain ? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's 
 sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep. 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how coidd thy notes flow in such 
 a crystal stream ? 
 
 We look before and after. 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell 
 of saddest thought. 
 
 Yet if we coifld scorn 
 Hate, and pride, and fear; 
 
 If we were tilings born 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 
 know not how thy joy we ever 
 should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound. 
 Better than all treasures 
 That in books are found. 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner 
 of tlie ground ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know. 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen tlien, as I am 
 listening now. 
 
492 
 
 tiHELLEY. 
 
 MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE. 
 
 Music, when soft voices die, 
 Vibrates in the memory, — 
 Odors, wlien sweet .violets sicken, 
 Live witliin the sense they quiclien. 
 
 Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, 
 Are heaped for the beloved's bed: 
 And so thy thoughts, when thou art 
 
 gone. 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Unfatiiomablk Sea! whose waves 
 are years. 
 Ocean of Time, whose waters of 
 deep woe 
 Are brackish with the salt of human 
 tears ! 
 Thou shoreless flood, which in thy 
 ebb and flow 
 Claspest the limits of mortality ! 
 And sick of prey, yet howling on for 
 
 more, 
 Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospi- 
 table shore ; 
 Treacherous in calm, and terrible in 
 storm. 
 Who shall put forth on thee, 
 Unfathomable Sea ? 
 
 THE WOllLirs WANDERERS. 
 
 Tell me, thou star, whose wings of 
 
 light 
 Speed tiiee in thy fiery flight. 
 In what cavern of the night 
 Will thy pinions close now? 
 
 Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
 Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
 In what depth of night or day 
 Seekest thou repose now '? 
 
 Weary wind, who wanderest 
 Like the world's rejected guest, 
 llast thou still some secret nest 
 On the tree or billow '.* 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Dkath is here, and death is there, 
 Death is busy everywhere, 
 All around, within, beneath, 
 Above, is death, — and we are death. 
 
 First our pleasures die, — and then 
 Our hopes, and then our fears, — and 
 
 when 
 These are dead, the debt is due, 
 Dust claims dust, — and we die too. 
 
 All things that we love and cherish. 
 Like ourselves, nuist fade and i^erish; 
 Such is our rude mortal lot, — 
 Love itself woidd, did they not. 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 I ni:iN(i fresh showers for the thii'st- 
 ing flowers. 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shades for the leaves 
 when laid 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews 
 that waken 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their moth- 
 er's breast. 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 1 wield the flail of the lashing hail. 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 
 And then again 1 dissolve it in rain, 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains be- 
 low, 
 And their great pines groan aghast ; 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow 
 white. 
 While I sleep in the arms of the 
 blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skyey 
 bowers. 
 Lightning, my pilot sits. 
 In a cavern under, is fettered the 
 thunder, 
 It struggles and howls by fits ; 
 Over earth and ocean with gentle 
 motion. 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 
Lured by the love of the genii that 
 move 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the 
 hills. 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain 
 or stream. 
 The spirit he loves, remains; 
 And I, all the while, bask in heaven's 
 blue smile, 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine smarise, with his me- 
 teor eyes. 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 
 When the morning-star shines 
 dead. 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag. 
 Which an earthquake rocks and 
 swings. 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And Avhen sunset may l)reathe, from 
 the lit sea beneath. 
 Its ardors of rest and of love, 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 Fiom the depth of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine 
 airy nest, 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden, with white fire 
 laden, 
 AVhom mortals call the moon, 
 (Hides glimmering o'er my fleece-like 
 floor. 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unsceii 
 feet, 
 Which only the angels hear, 
 May have broken the woof of my 
 tent's thin roof. 
 The stars peep behind her and 
 peer; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and 
 flee. 
 Like a swarm of golden bees. 
 When I widen the rent in my wind- 
 built tent. 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and 
 seas, 
 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through 
 me on high. 
 Are each paved with the moon and 
 these, 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burn- 
 ing zone, I pearl; 
 And the moon's with a girdle of 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars 
 reel and swim. 
 When the whirlwinds my banner 
 unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, v.ith a bridge- 
 like shape. 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 Sunbeam-proof, 1 hang like a roof, 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I 
 march. 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
 When the powers of the air are 
 chained to my chaii-, 
 Is the million-colored bow; 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colors 
 wove. 
 While the moist earth was laugh- 
 ing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water. 
 
 And the nursling of the sky: 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean 
 and shores; 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when with never 
 a stain. 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams with 
 their convex gleams. 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain. 
 Like a child from the womb, like a 
 ghost from the tomb, 
 I arise and mibuild it again. 
 
 FROM •• THE SEXSiriVE-PLAXr." 
 
 A SENSiTiVE-plant in a garden grew. 
 
 And the young winds fed it with sil- 
 ver dew, 
 
 And it opened its fan-like leaves to 
 the light, 
 
 And closed them beneath the kisses 
 of night. 
 
494 
 
 SIIKLLEY. 
 
 And the spring arose on the garden 
 fair, 
 
 And tlie Spirit of Love fell every- 
 where; 
 
 And each flower and herb on Earth's 
 dark breast 
 
 Kose from the dreams of its wintry 
 rest. 
 
 But none ever trembled and panted 
 with bliss 
 
 In the garden, the field, or the wil- 
 derness, 
 
 Like a doe in the noontide with love's 
 sweet want, 
 
 As the companionless sensitive-plant. 
 
 The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
 Arose from the ground with warm 
 
 rain wet. 
 And tlieir breath was mixed with 
 
 fresh odor, sent 
 From the turf, like the voice and the 
 
 instrument. 
 
 Then the pied wind-flowers and the 
 tulip tall. 
 
 And narcissi, the fairest among them 
 alh 
 
 Who gaze on their eyes in the 
 stream's recess, 
 
 Till they die of their own dear love- 
 liness. 
 
 And the Xaiad-like lily of the vale. 
 Whom youth makes so fair and i^as- 
 
 sion so pale. 
 That the light of its tremulous bells 
 
 is seen 
 Through their pavilions of tender 
 
 green ; 
 
 And the hyacinth purple, and white, 
 and blue. 
 
 Which flung from its bells a sweet 
 peal anew 
 
 Of music so delicate, soft, and in- 
 tense, 
 
 It was felt like an odor within the 
 sense ; 
 
 And the rose like a nymph to the 
 
 bath addrest. 
 Which luiveiled the depth of her 
 
 glowing breast. 
 
 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting 
 
 air 
 The soul of her beauty and love lay 
 
 bare ; 
 
 And the Avand-like lily, which lifted 
 
 up. 
 As a Mienad, its moonlight-colored 
 
 cup, 
 Till the flery star, which is its eye, 
 Gazed through the clear dew on the 
 
 tender sky; 
 
 And the jessamine faint, and the 
 
 sweet tuberose, 
 The sweetest flower for scent that 
 
 blows; 
 And all rare blossoms from every 
 
 clime 
 Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
 
 And on the stream Avhose inconstant 
 bosom 
 
 Was prankt, under boughs of embow- 
 ering blossom. 
 
 With golden and green light, slanting 
 through 
 
 Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 
 
 Broad watei'-lilies lay tremulously. 
 And starry river-buds glimmered by. 
 And around them the soft stream did 
 
 glide and dance 
 With a motion of sweet sound and 
 
 radiance. 
 
 And from this undefiled Paradise 
 
 The flowers, — as an infant's awaken- 
 ing eyes 
 
 Smile on its mother, whose singing 
 sweet 
 
 Can first lull, and at last must awaken 
 it — 
 
 When heaven's blithe winds had un- 
 folded them. 
 
 As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden 
 gem. 
 
 Shone smiling to heaven, and every 
 one 
 
 Shared joy in the light of the gentle 
 smi; 
 
For each one was interpenetrated 
 With the Hsiht and the odor its neigli- 
 
 bor shed, 
 Like young lovers whom youth and 
 
 love make dear. 
 Wrapped and filled by their mutual 
 
 atmosphere. 
 
 But the sensitive-plant, which coukl 
 give small fruit 
 
 Of the love which it felt from the 
 leaf to the root, 
 
 Eeceived more than all, it loved more 
 than ever, 
 
 Where none wanted but it, could be- 
 long to the giver, — 
 
 For the sensitive-plant has no briglit 
 
 flower ; 
 Radiance and odor are not its dower : 
 It loves, even like love, its deep heart 
 
 is full, [fui: 
 
 It desires what it has not, the beauti- 
 
 Fiioyr 
 
 'to a lady with a 
 guitar:- 
 
 TwK artist who this idol wrought. 
 To echo all harmonious thought. 
 Felled a tree, wliile on the steep 
 The woods were in tlieir winter sleep. 
 Rocked in that repose divine 
 On tlie wind-swept Apennine; 
 And dreaming, some of autumn past. 
 And some of spring approaching fast. 
 And souie of April buds and showers. 
 And souie of songs in July bowers. 
 And all of love; and so this tree, — 
 O that such our death may l)e ! — 
 Died in sleep, and felt no i)ain. 
 To live in happier form again: 
 From wliicli, beneatli heaven's faii- 
 
 est star. 
 The artist wrought this loved guitar. 
 And taught it justly to reply, 
 To all who question skilfully. 
 In language gentle as tliine own; 
 Whispering in enamored tone 
 hweet oracles of woods and dells. 
 And summer winds in sylvan cells; 
 For it had learnt all harmonies 
 Of the plains and of the skies. 
 Of the forests and the mountains. 
 And tlie many-voiced fountains; 
 
 'J'lie clearest echoes of the hills. 
 The softest notes of falling rills, 
 The melodies of birds and bees, 
 The murmuring of sununer seas. 
 And pattering rain, and breathing 
 
 dew. 
 And airs of evening; and it knew 
 Tliat seldom-heard mysterious sound, 
 Wliich, driven on its diurnal round, 
 As it floats through boundless day. 
 Our world enkindles on its way, — 
 All this it knows, but will not tell 
 To those who cannot question well 
 The spirit that inhabits it; 
 It talks according to the wit 
 Of its companions; and no more 
 Is heai'd than has been felt before, 
 By those who tempt it to betray 
 These secrets of an elder day. 
 But, sweetly as its answers will 
 Flatter hands of perfect skill. 
 It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
 For our beloved friend alone. 
 
 aooD-NiGirr. 
 
 Good-night ? ah! no; the hour is ill 
 Which severs those it should unite; 
 
 Let us remain together still, 
 Then it will be fjood night. 
 
 How can I call the lone night good. 
 Though thy sweet wishes wing its 
 flight •> 
 
 Be it not said, thought, understood. 
 That it will be goud night. 
 
 To hearts which near each other 
 move [liglit, 
 
 From evening close to morning 
 The night is good ; because, my love, 
 
 They never say good-night. 
 
 MUTABILITY. 
 
 We are as clouds that veil the mid- 
 night moon ; 
 How restlessly they speed, and 
 gleam, and quiver, 
 Streaking the darkness radiantly! — 
 yet soon 
 Night closes round, and they are 
 lost forever : 
 
Or like forgotten lyres, whose disso- We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or 
 nant strings ' Aveep; 
 
 Give various response to each vary- Embrace fond woe, or cast our 
 ing blast, | cares away. 
 
 To whose frail frame no second mo- 
 tion brings I It is the same ! — For, be it joy or 
 One mood or modulation like the sorrow. 
 
 last. 
 
 We rest — a dream has power to poi- 
 son sleep : 
 We rise — one wandering thought 
 pollutes the day; 
 
 The path of its dejiarture still is 
 free ; 
 Man's yesterday may ne'er be like 
 his morrow; 
 Naught may endure but muta- 
 bility. 
 
 William Shenstone. 
 
 STANZAS FliOM ''THE SCIIOOL- 
 
 MisriiEssr 
 
 In every village marked with little 
 spire, 
 
 Embowered in trees, and hardly 
 known to fame, 
 
 There dwells, in lowly shed, and 
 mean attire, 
 
 A matron old, whom we school- 
 mistress name; 
 
 Who boasts unruly brats with birch 
 to tame ; 
 
 They grieven sore, in piteous dur- 
 ance pent, 
 
 Awed by the power of this relent- 
 less dame ; 
 
 And oft-times, on vagaries idly 
 bent. 
 For unkempt hair, or task unconned, 
 are sorely shent. 
 
 And all in sight doth rise a birchen 
 
 tree. 
 Which learning near her little 
 
 dome did stow; 
 Whilom a twig of small regard to 
 
 see. 
 Though now so wide its waving 
 
 branches flow, [woe; 
 
 And work the simple vassals mickle 
 For not a wind might curl the 
 
 leaves that blew. 
 But their limbs sliuddered, and 
 
 their pulse beat low; 
 
 And as they looked they found 
 their horror grow. 
 And shaped it into rods, and tingled 
 at the view. 
 
 Near to this dome is found a patch 
 
 so green, 
 On which the tribe their gambols 
 
 do display ; 
 And at the door imprisoning board 
 
 is seen. 
 Lest weakly wights of smaller 
 
 size should stray; 
 Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
 The noises intermixed, Mhich 
 
 thence resound, [tray; 
 
 Do learning's little tenement be- 
 Where sits the dame, disguised in 
 
 look profound 
 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns 
 
 her wheel around. 
 
 Her cap, far whiter than the driven 
 snow. 
 
 Emblem right meet of decency 
 does yield: 
 
 Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I 
 trow, [field: 
 
 As is the harebell that adorns the 
 
 And in her hand, for sceptre, she 
 does wield 
 
 Tway birchen sprays ; with anxious 
 fear entwined. 
 
 With dark distrust, and sad re- 
 pentance filled ; 
 
 ;^ HEN STONE. 
 
 497 
 
 And steadfast hate, and sharp af- 
 fliction joined, 
 And fury uncontrolled, and chastise- 
 ment unkind. 
 
 A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 
 
 thrown ; 
 A russet kirtle fenced the nipping 
 
 air; 
 'Twas simple russet, hut it was her 
 
 own; 
 'Twas her own country bred the 
 
 flock so fair, 
 'Twas her own labor did tlie fleece 
 
 prepare : 
 And, sooth to say, her pupils, 
 
 ranged around. 
 Through pious awe, did term it 
 
 passing rare; 
 For they in gaping wonderment 
 
 abound. 
 And think no doubt, she been the 
 
 greatest wight on ground. 
 
 Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her 
 
 truth, 
 Ne pompous title did debauch her 
 
 ear; 
 Goody , good-woman, gossip, n' aunt, 
 
 forsooth. 
 Or dame, the sole additions she did 
 
 hear; 
 Yet these she challenged, these she 
 
 held right dear: 
 Nor would esteem him act as 
 
 mought behove. 
 Who should not honored eld with 
 
 tliese revere: 
 For never title^ yet so mean could 
 
 prove. 
 But there was eke a mind which did 
 
 that title love. 
 
 One ancient hen she took delight to 
 feed ; 
 
 The plodding pattern of the busy 
 dame : 
 
 Which, ever and anon, impelled by 
 need. 
 
 Into lier school, begirt with chick- 
 ens, came; 
 
 Such favor did her past deport- 
 ment claim; 
 
 And, if neglect had lavished on the 
 ground 
 
 Fragments of bread, she would 
 collect the same. 
 
 For well she knew, and quaintly 
 could expound. 
 What sin it were to waste the small- 
 est crumb she found. 
 
 Here oft tlie dame, on Sabbath's de- 
 cent eve. 
 
 Hymned such psalms as Sternhold 
 forth did mete; 
 
 If winter 'twere, she to her hearth 
 did cleave. 
 
 But in her garden found a summer 
 seat; 
 
 Sweet melody to hear her then 
 repeat 
 
 How Israel's sons, beneath a for- 
 eign king, 
 
 Wliile taunting foemen did a song 
 entreat, 
 
 All, for the nonce, untuning every 
 string, 
 Uphung their useless lyres — small 
 heart had they to sing. 
 
 For she was ]ust, and friend to vir- 
 tuous lore, 
 
 And passed much time in truly vir- 
 tuous deed ; 
 
 And, in those elfins' ears, would 
 oft deplore 
 
 The times, when truth by popish 
 rage did bleed ; 
 
 And tortuous death was true devo- 
 tion's meed; 
 
 And simple Faith in iron chains did 
 mourn. 
 
 That nould on wooden image 
 place lier creed ; 
 
 And lawnly saints in smouldering 
 flames did burn : 
 Ah! dearest Lord, forefend thilk 
 days should ere return. 
 
 In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish 
 stem. 
 
 By the sharp tooth of cankering 
 eld defaced, 
 
 In which, when he receives his di- 
 adem. 
 
 m 
 
 498 
 
 SHIRLEY. 
 
 Our sovereign prince and liefest 
 
 liege is jjlaced. 
 The matron sate; and some with 
 
 rank she graced. 
 (The sonrce of children's and of 
 
 courtiers' pride!) 
 Eedressed affronts, for vile affronts 
 
 there passed ; 
 And warned them not the fretful 
 
 to deride, 
 But love each other dear, whatever 
 
 them betide. 
 
 Eight well she knew each temper to 
 
 desciy ; 
 To thwart the proud and the sub- 
 miss to raise ; 
 Some Avith vile copper-prize exalt 
 
 on high, 
 And some entice with pittance 
 
 small of praise; 
 And other some with baleful sprig 
 
 she frays ; 
 E'en absent, she the reins of power 
 
 doth hold. 
 While with quaint arts, the giddy 
 
 crowd she sways, 
 Forewarned, if little bird their 
 
 pranks behold, 
 'Twill whisper in her ear, and all the 
 
 scene imfold. 
 
 WRITTEN AT AN JNN AT HENLEY. 
 
 To thee, fair Freedom, I retire 
 
 From tlattery, cards, and dice, and 
 din; 
 Xor art thou found in mansions 
 higher 
 Than the low cot or luuiil)!*' Inn. 
 
 'Tis here with boundless power I 
 reign, 
 And every healtli which I Ijegin 
 Converts dull port to bright cham- 
 pagne ! 
 Such freedom crowns it at an inn, 
 
 1 fly from pomp, I fly from plate, 
 1 fly from Falseliood' s specious grin ; 
 
 Freedom I love, and form I hate, 
 And choose my lodgings at an inn. 
 
 Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, 
 Which lackeys else might hope to 
 win ; 
 
 It buys what courts have not in store, 
 It buys me freedom at an inn. 
 
 Whoe'er has travelled life's dull 
 round, 
 
 Where'er his stages may have been. 
 May sigh to think he still has fouml 
 
 His warmest welcome at an inn. 
 
 James Shirley. 
 
 [From The Contention of AJax and Uli/sscs.] 
 DEATH THE LEVELLER. 
 
 The glories of our birth and state 
 
 Are shadows. not substantial things ; 
 There is no armor against Fate — 
 Death lays his icy" hand on kings. 
 Sceptre and crown 
 Must tum])le down. 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and 
 spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the 
 
 field, [kill; 
 
 And plant fresh laurels where they 
 
 But their strong nerves at last must 
 j'ield — 
 
 They tame but one another still; 
 Earlj- or late 
 They stoop to Fate. 
 And must give up their miu-nnu'ing 
 
 breath, 
 When they, pale captives, creep to 
 death. 
 
 The garlands Avlther on your brow — 
 Then boast no more your mighty 
 deeds ; 
 Upon Death's purple altar, now. 
 See where the victor-victim bleeds ! 
 All heads must come 
 To the cold tomb — 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the 
 dust. 
 
Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
 SOXNET TO SLEEP. 
 
 Come, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot 
 
 of peace, 
 The baiting-place of wit, tlie balm of 
 
 woe. 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's 
 
 release. 
 The indifferent judge between the 
 
 high and low ! 
 With shield of proof, shield me from 
 
 out tlie prease 
 Of those tierce darts, Despair at me 
 
 doth throw : 
 
 make me in those civil wars to 
 
 cease ! 
 
 1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. 
 Take tliou of me smooth pillows, 
 
 sweetest bed; 
 
 A chamber deaf to noise, and blind 
 to light ; 
 
 A rosy garland , and a weary head ; 
 
 And if these things, as being thine 
 by right. 
 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt 
 in me, 
 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's im- 
 age see. 
 
 Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 
 
 FAREirELL OF THE SOUL TO THE 
 BODY. 
 
 Companion dear! the hour draws 
 nigh; 
 
 The sentence speeds — to die, to die. 
 
 So long in mystic union held, 
 
 So close with strong embrace com- 
 pelled. 
 
 How canst thou bear the dread de- 
 cree, 
 
 That strikes thy clasping nerves from 
 me? 
 
 To Him who on this mortal shore. 
 
 The same encircling vestment wore. 
 
 To Him 1 look, to Him I bend. 
 
 To Him thy shuddering frame com- 
 mend. 
 
 If I have ever caused thee pain, 
 
 The throbbing breast, the burning 
 brain. 
 
 With cares and vigils turned thee 
 pale. 
 
 And scorned thee when thy strength 
 did fail — 
 
 Forgive ! — Forgive! — thy task doth 
 cease. 
 
 Friend ! Lover ! — let us part in peace. 
 
 If thou didst sometimes check my 
 force. 
 
 Or, trifling, stay mine upward course, 
 
 Or lure from Heaven my wavering 
 
 trust, 
 Or bow my drooping wing to dust — 
 I blame thee not, the strife is done, 
 I knew thou wert the weaker one. 
 The vase of earth, the trembling clod, 
 Constrained to hold the breath of 
 
 God. 
 — Well hast thou in my service 
 
 wrought; 
 Thy brow liath mirrored forth my 
 
 thought. 
 To wear my smile thy lip hath glowed. 
 Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed ; 
 Thine ear hath borne me rich sup- 
 plies 
 Of sweetly varied melodies ; 
 Thy hands my prompted deeds have 
 
 done, 
 Thy feet upon mine errands run ; 
 Yes, thou hast marked my bidding 
 
 well. 
 Faithful and true ! farewell, farewell ! 
 
 Go to thy rest. A quiet bed 
 
 Meek mother Earth with flowers 
 
 shall spread. 
 'Wliere I no more thy sleep may break 
 With fevered dream, nor rudely wake 
 Thy wearied eye. 
 
500 
 
 SIOOURNEY, 
 
 Oh, quit thy hold, 
 For thou art faint, and chill, and cold. 
 And long thy gasp and groan of pain 
 Have hound nie pitying in thy chain. 
 Though angels urge me hence to soar, 
 Where I shall share thine ills no more. 
 Yet we shall meet. To soothe thy 
 
 pain 
 Remember — we shall meet again. 
 Quell with this hope the victor's 
 
 sting. 
 And keep it as a signet-ring. 
 When the dire worm shall pierce thy 
 
 breast, 
 And nought but ashes mark thy rest, 
 When stars shall fall, and skies grow 
 
 dark, 
 And i^roud suns quench their glow- 
 worm spark. 
 Keep thou that hope, to light thy 
 
 gloom. 
 Till the last trumpet rends the tomb. 
 — Then shalt thou glorious rise, and 
 
 fair. 
 Nor spot, nor stain, nor wrinkle bear. 
 And I, with hovering wing elate, 
 The bursting of thy bonds shall wait. 
 And breathe the welcome of the sky — 
 '• No more to part, no more to die, 
 Co-heir of Immortality." 
 
 BENE VOLENCE. 
 
 Whose is the gold that glitters in the 
 
 mine ? 
 And whose the silver ? Are they not 
 
 the Lord's ? 
 And lo ! the cattle on a thousand hills. 
 And the broad earth with all her 
 
 gushing springs 
 Are they not His who made them ? 
 
 Ye who hold 
 
 Slight tenantry therein, and call your 
 lands 
 
 By your own names, and lock your 
 gathered gold 
 
 From him who in his bleeding Sa- 
 viour's nanie 
 
 Doth ask a part, whose shall those 
 riches be 
 
 When, like the grass-blade from the 
 autumn frost, 
 
 Ye fall away ? 
 
 Point out to me the forms 
 That in your treasure-chambers shall 
 
 enact 
 Glad mastership, and revel where 
 
 you toiled 
 Sleepless and stern. Strange faces 
 
 are they all. 
 O man! whose wrinkling labor is 
 
 for heirs 
 Thou knowest not who, thou in thy 
 
 mouldering bed, 
 Unkenned, vmchronicled of them, 
 
 shall sleep; 
 Nor will they thank thee, that thou 
 
 didst bereave 
 Thy soul of good for them. 
 
 Now, Vaow mayest give 
 The famished food, the prisoner 
 
 liberty. 
 Light to the darkened mind, to the 
 
 lost soul 
 A place in heaven. Take thou the 
 
 privilege 
 With solemn gratitude. Speck as 
 
 thou art 
 Upon earth's surface, gloriously exult 
 To be co-worker with the King of 
 
 kinafs. 
 
 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, 
 
 Who build on the tossing and treach- 
 erous main; 
 
 Toil on! for the wisdom of man ye 
 mock. 
 
 With your sand-based structures, and 
 domes of rock; 
 
 Your colunms the fathomless foun- 
 tains lave, 
 
 And your arches spring up through 
 the crested wave ; 
 
 Ye're a pvuiy race, thus boldly to rear 
 
 A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 
 
 Ye bind the deep with yoiu- secret 
 zone. 
 
 The ocean is sealed, and the surge a 
 stone: 
 
 Fresh wreaths from the coral pave- 
 ment spring. 
 
 Like the terraced pride of Assyria's 
 kins : 
 
SIMMS. 
 
 501 
 
 The turf looks green where the break- 
 ers rolled, 
 
 O'er the Avhirlpool ripens the rind of 
 gold, [men. 
 
 The sea-snatched isle is the home of 
 
 And mountains exult where the wave 
 hath been. 
 
 But why do ye plant 'neath the bil- 
 lows dark 
 
 The wrecking reef for the gallant bark? 
 
 There are snares enough on the 
 tented field; 
 
 'Mid the blossomed sweets that the 
 valleys yield ; 
 
 There are serpents to coil ere the 
 flowers are up: 
 
 There's a poison drop in man's purest 
 cup ; 
 
 There are foes that watch for his cra- 
 dle breath, 
 
 And why need ye sow the floods with 
 death ? 
 
 With mouldering bones the deeps are 
 
 white, 
 From the ice-clad pole to the tropics 
 
 bright ; 
 
 The mermaid hath twisted her fingers 
 cold 
 
 AVith the mesh of the sea-boy's curls 
 of gold ; 
 
 And the gods of ocean have frowned 
 to see 
 
 The mariner's bed 'mid their halls of 
 glee; 
 
 Hath earth no graves ? that ye thus 
 must spread 
 
 The boundless sea with the throng- 
 ing dead ? 
 
 Ye build ! ye build ! bi;t ye enter not 
 in; 
 
 Like the tribes whom the desert de- 
 voured in their sin ; 
 
 From the land of promise, ye fade 
 and die. 
 
 Ere its verdure gleams forth on your 
 wearied eye. 
 
 As the cloud-crowned pyramids' 
 founders sleep 
 
 Noteless and lost in oblivion deep, 
 
 Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the deso- 
 late main, 
 
 While the wonder and pride of your 
 works remain. 
 
 William Gilmore Simms. 
 
 PROGRESS IX DENIAL. 
 
 *' Yet, onward still! " the spirit cries 
 within, 
 'Tis I that must repay thee. Mor- 
 tal fame. 
 If won, is but at best the hollow din. 
 The vulgar freedom with a mighty 
 
 name ; 
 Seek not this music, — ask not this 
 acclaim, 
 But in the strife find succor; — for 
 the toil 
 Pursued for such false barter ends 
 in shame. 
 As certainly as that which seeks but 
 
 spoil ! 
 Best recompense he finds, who, to 
 his task 
 Brings a proud, patient spirit that 
 will wait, 
 
 Nor for the guerdon stoop, nor vainly 
 
 ask 
 Of fate or fortune, — but with right 
 
 good-will, [still. 
 
 Go, working on, and uncomplaining 
 
 Assured of fit reward, or soon or 
 
 late! 
 
 SOLACE OF THE WOODS. 
 
 Woods, waters, have a charm to 
 
 soothe the ear. 
 When common soimds have vexed 
 
 it. When the day 
 Grows sultry, and the crowd is in 
 
 thy way. 
 And working in thy soul much coil 
 
 and care, — 
 Betake thee to the forests. In the 
 
 shade 
 
 ^^^^i^«^- 
 
502 
 
 SIMMS. 
 
 Of pines, and by the side of purl- 
 ing sti'eams 
 That prattle all their secrets in 
 their dreams, 
 Unconscious of a listener, — unafraid; 
 Thy soul shall feel their freshening, 
 and the truth 
 Of nature then, reviving in thy 
 heart, 
 Shall bring thee the best feelings of 
 thy youth. 
 When in all natural joys thy joy 
 had part. 
 Ere lucre and the narrowing toils of 
 
 trade 
 Had turned thee to the thing thou 
 wast not made. 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 Not profitless the game, even when 
 we lose. 
 Nor wanting in reward the thank- 
 less toil; 
 The wild adventure that the man 
 pursues. 
 Requites him, though he gather not 
 the spoil : 
 Strength follows labor, and its exer- 
 cise 
 Brings independence, fearlessness 
 of ill,— 
 Courage and pride, — all attributes we 
 prize ; — 
 Though their fruits fail, not the 
 less precious still. 
 Though fame withholds the trophy of 
 desire, 
 And men deny, and the imxiatient 
 throng 
 Grow heedless, and the strains pro- 
 tracted, tire; — 
 Not wholly vain the minstrel and 
 the song. 
 If, striving to arouse one heavenly 
 
 tone 
 In others' hearts, it wakens up his 
 own. 
 
 And this, methinks, were no imseem- 
 ly boast. 
 In him who thus records the exije- 
 rience 
 
 Of one, the humblest of that erring 
 host. 
 Whose labors have been thought to 
 need defence. 
 What though he reap no honors, — 
 
 M'hat though death 
 Rise terrible between him and the 
 
 wreath, 
 That had been his reward, ere, in the 
 dust. 
 He too is dust ; yet hath he in his 
 heart. 
 The happiest consciousness of what 
 is just. 
 Sweet, true, and beautiful, — which 
 will not part [faith, 
 
 From his possession. In this happy 
 He knows that life is lovely, — that 
 
 all things 
 Are sacred ; — that the air is full of 
 wings 
 Bent heavenward, — and that bliss is 
 born of scath ! 
 
 HEART ESSENTIAL TO GENIUS. 
 
 We are not always equal to our fate. 
 Nor true to our conditions. Doultt 
 
 and fear 
 Beset the bravest in their high 
 career. 
 At moments when the soul, no more 
 elate 
 With expectation, sinks beneath 
 
 the time. 
 The masters have their weakness. 
 
 " I would cliuib," 
 Said Raleigh, gazing on the high- 
 est hill— 
 " But that I tremble with the fear to 
 fall!" 
 Apt was the answer of the high- 
 souled Queen, — 
 " If thy heart fail thee, never climb 
 
 ataU!" 
 The heart! if that be sound, confirms 
 the rest, 
 Crowns genius with his lion will 
 and mien. 
 And, from the conscious virtue in the 
 breast. 
 To trembling nature gives both 
 strength and will ! 
 
SIMMS. 
 
 503 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Though wronged, not harsh my an- 
 swer ! Love is fond, 
 Even pained, — and rather to his 
 
 injury bends, 
 Than cliooses to make shipwreck 
 of his friends 
 By stormy summons. He hath 
 naught beyond 
 For consolation, if tliat tliese be 
 
 lost; 
 
 And rather will he hear of fortune 
 crossed, 
 Plans baffled, hopes denied, — than 
 take a tone 
 Resentful, — with a quick and keen 
 
 reply 
 To hasty passion and impatient 
 eye. 
 Such as by noblest natures may be 
 shown. 
 When the mood vexes ! Friendship 
 
 is a seed 
 Needs tendance. You nuist keep it 
 free from weed, 
 Nor, if the tree has sometimes bitter 
 
 fruit, 
 Must you for this lay axe inito the 
 root. 
 
 UNHAPPY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 That season which all other men re- 
 gret, 
 And strive, with boyish longing, to 
 I'ecall, 
 
 Which love permits not memory to 
 forget. 
 And fancy still restores in dreams 
 of all 
 
 That boyhood worshipped, or be- 
 lieved, or knew, — 
 
 Brings no sweet images to me, — was 
 true, 
 
 Only in cold and cloud, in lonely 
 days 
 And gloomy fancies, — in defrauded 
 
 claims. 
 Defeated hopes, denied, denying 
 aims ; — 
 
 Cheered by no promise, — lighted by 
 no rays. 
 
 Warmed by no smile, — no mother's 
 smile, — that smile. 
 
 Of all, best suited sorrow to beguile, 
 
 And strengthen hope, and, by un- 
 marked degrees. 
 
 Encourage to their birth high pur- 
 poses. 
 
 MAXHOOD. 
 
 Manhood at last ! — and, with its 
 consciousness, 
 Are strength and freedom ; freedom 
 to pursue 
 The purposes of hope, — the godlike 
 bliss. 
 Born in the struggle for the great 
 and true! 
 And every energy that should be mine. 
 This day, I dedicate to its object, — 
 Life! 
 So help me. Heaven, that never I re- 
 sign 
 The duty which devotes me to the 
 strife ; 
 The enduring conflict which demands 
 my strength, 
 Whether of soul or body, to the 
 last; 
 The tribute of my years, through all 
 their length; 
 The future's compensation to the 
 past! 
 Boys' pleasures are for boyhood, — its 
 
 best cares 
 Befit us not in our performing years. 
 
 NIGHT-STORM. 
 
 This tempest sweeps the Atlantic ! — 
 Nevasink 
 Is howling to the capes I Grim Hat- 
 teras cries 
 Like thousand damned ghosts, that 
 on the brink 
 Lift their dark hands and threat 
 the thi-eatening skies; 
 Surging through foam and tempest, 
 old Roman 
 Hangs o'er the gulf, and, with his 
 
 cavernous throat. 
 Pours out the torrent of his wolfish 
 note, 
 
504 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 And bids the billows bear it where 
 
 they can ! 
 Beep calleth unto deep, and, from 
 
 the cloud, 
 Launches the bolt, that,' bursting 
 
 o'er the sea, 
 Kends for a moment the thick pitchy 
 
 shroud. 
 And shows the ship the shore be- 
 neath her lee : 
 Start not, dear wife, no dangers here 
 
 betide, — 
 And see, the boy still sleeping at 
 
 your side! 
 
 TRIUMPH. 
 
 The grave but ends the struggle! 
 Follows then 
 The trimnph, which, superior to 
 the doom, 
 
 Grows loveliest, and looks best, to 
 mortal men. 
 Purple in beauty, towering o'er the 
 tomb I 
 Oh ! with the stoppage of the impid- 
 sive tide 
 That vexed the impatient heart 
 
 with needful strife. 
 The soul that is hope's living, 
 leaps to life. 
 And shakes her fragrant plumage far 
 
 and wide! 
 Eyes follow then in worship which 
 but late 
 Frowned in defiance, — and the 
 timorous herd, [word, 
 
 That sleekly waited for another's 
 Grow bold, at last, to bring, — obey- 
 ing fate, — 
 The tribute of their praise, but late 
 denied, — 
 Tribute of homage which is some- 
 times, — hate! 
 
 Alexander Smith. 
 
 [From Norton.] 
 B ABB ABA. 
 
 On the Sabbath-day, 
 
 Through the church-yard old and gray. 
 Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; 
 And amid tlie words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 
 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music — in the mellow organ-calms, 
 'Mid the upward-streaming prayei's, and the rich and solemn psalms, 
 
 I stood careless, Barbara. 
 
 My heart was otherwhere 
 
 While the organ shook the air. 
 And the priest, with outspread hands, blessed the people with a prayer; 
 But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine 
 Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine — 
 Gleamed and vanished in a moment — Oh, that face was surely thine 
 
 Out of heaven, Barbara ! 
 
 O pallid, pallid face ! 
 
 O earnest eyes of grace ! 
 When last I saw thee, dearest,"it was in another place. 
 You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist; 
 The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist — 
 A piu"ple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed, 
 
 That wild morning, Barbara! 
 
I searched, in my despair. 
 
 Sunny noon and midniglit air; 
 I coiild not drive away the thouglit that you were lingering there. 
 Oh, many and many a A\inter niglit I sat when you were gone, 
 My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone. 
 Within the dripping church-yard, the rain plashing on your stone. 
 
 You were sleeping, Barbara ! 
 
 'Mong angels, do you think 
 
 Of the precious golden link 
 I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink ? 
 Or when that niglit of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, 
 Was emptied of its nuisic. and we watched, through latticed bars, 
 The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars. 
 
 Till the day broke, 13arbara ? 
 
 In the years I've changed; 
 
 Wild and far my heart" hath ranged, 
 And many sins and errors now have been on "me avenged; 
 But to you I liave been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked: 
 I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact — 
 Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract — 
 
 Still I love you, Barbara ! 
 
 Yet, love, I am unblest; 
 
 With many doubts opprest, 
 I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest. 
 Could I but win you for an hour from olf that starry shore, 
 The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you more 
 Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore. 
 
 You could teach me, Barbara ! 
 
 In vain, in vain, in vain! 
 
 You will never come again! 
 There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; 
 The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, 
 Round selfish shores forever moans the hurt and Avounded sea, 
 There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, 
 
 Barbara ! 
 
 GLASGOW. 
 
 Sing, poet, 'tis a merry world; 
 That cottage smoke is rolled and 
 curled 
 
 In sport, that every moss 
 Is happy, every inch of soil ; — 
 Before vie rims a road of toil 
 
 With my grave cut across. 
 Sing, trailing showers and breezy 
 
 downs — 
 I know the tragic hearts of towns. 
 
 City! I am true son of thine; 
 Ne'er dwelt I Avhere great mornings 
 shine 
 
 Around the bleating pens; 
 Ne'er by the rivulets I strayed, 
 And ne'er upon my childhood weighed 
 
 The silence of the glens. 
 Instead of shores where ocean 
 
 beats 
 I hear the ebb and flow of streets. 
 
506 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 Black Labor draws his weary waves 
 Into their secret moaning caves; 
 
 But, with tlie morning light, 
 That sea again will overflow 
 With a long, weary sound of woe, 
 
 Again to faint in night. 
 Wave am I in that sea of woes, 
 Which, night and morning, ebbs and 
 flows. 
 
 I dwelt within a gloomy court. 
 Wherein did never sunbeam sport ; 
 
 Yet there my heart was stirred — 
 My very blood did dance and thrill, 
 A\' hen on my narrow window-sill 
 
 ►Spring lighted like a bird. 
 Poor flowers! I watched them pine 
 
 for weeks, 
 With leaves as pale as human cheeks. 
 
 Afar, one summer, I was borne ; 
 Through golden vapors of the morn 
 
 I heard the hills of sheep : 
 I trod with a wild ecstasy 
 The bright fringe of the living sea : 
 
 And on a ruined keep 
 I sat, and watched an endless plain 
 Blacken beneath the gloom of rain. 
 
 Oh, fair the lightly-sprinkled waste. 
 O'er which a laughing shower has 
 raced ! 
 
 Oh, fair the April shoots ! 
 Oh, fair the woods on summer days, 
 While a blue hyacinthine haze 
 
 Is dreaming round the roots ! 
 In thee, O city ! I discern 
 Another beauty, sad and stern. 
 
 Dra wthy fierce streams of blinding ore. 
 Smite on a thousand anvils, roar 
 
 Down to the harbor-bars ; 
 Smoulder in smoky sunsets, flare 
 On rainy nights ; with street and 
 square 
 
 Lie empty to the stars. 
 From terrace proud to alley base 
 I know thee as my mother's face. 
 
 When sunset bathes thee in his gold, 
 In wreaths of bronze thy sides are 
 rolled. 
 Thy smoke is dusky fire ; 
 And, from the glory round thee 
 pom-ed. 
 
 A sunbeam like an angel's sword 
 
 Shivers upon a spire. 
 Thus have I Matched thee, Terror! 
 
 Dream ! 
 While the blue night crept up the 
 
 stream. 
 
 The wild train plunges in the hills, 
 He shrieks across the midnight rills; 
 
 Streams through tlie shifting glare, 
 The roar and flap of foundry tires, 
 That shake with light the sleeping 
 shires ; 
 
 And on the moorlands bare 
 He sees afar a crown of light 
 Hang o'er thee in the hollow night. 
 
 At midnight, when thy suburbs lie 
 As silent as a noonday sky 
 
 When larks with heat are mute, 
 I love to linger on thy bridge. 
 All lonely as a mountain ridge. 
 
 Disturbed but by my foot; 
 While the black lazy stream beneath 
 Steals from its far-off wilds of heath. 
 
 And through thy heart as through a 
 
 dream. 
 Flows on that black disdainful 
 ' stream; 
 All scornfully it flows. 
 Between the huddled gloom of masts, 
 Silent as pines unvexed by blasts — 
 'Tween lamps in streaming rows, 
 O wondrous sight! O stream of 
 dread ! 
 
 long, dark river of the dead ! 
 
 Afar, the banner of the year 
 Unfurls : but dimly prisoned here, 
 
 'Tis only when I greet 
 A dropt rose lying in my way, 
 A butterfly that llutters gay 
 
 Athwart the noisy street. 
 
 1 know the happy Summer smiles 
 Aroimd thy suburbs, miles on miles. 
 
 'Twere neither ptean now, nor dirge, 
 The flash and thunder of the surge 
 
 On flat sands wide and bare ; 
 No haunting joy or anguish dwells 
 In the green light of sunny dells. 
 
 Or in the starry air. 
 Alike to me the desert flower. 
 The rainbow laughingo'er theshower. 
 
SMITH. 
 
 507 
 
 AVhile o'erthy walls the darknesssails, 
 I lean against the churchyard rails ; 
 
 Up in the midnight towers 
 The helfried sj^ire, the street is dead, 
 I hear in silence overliead 
 
 The clang of iron hovn's : 
 It moves me not — I know her tomb 
 Is yonder in the shapeless gloom. 
 
 All raptures of this mortal breath, 
 Solemnities of life and death, 
 
 Dwell in thy noise alone : 
 Of me thou hast become a part — 
 Some kindred with my human heart 
 
 Lives in thy streets of stone; 
 For we have been familiar more 
 Than galley-slave and weary oar. 
 
 The beech is dipped in Avine; the 
 
 shower 
 Is burnished ; on the swinging flower 
 
 The latest bee doth sit 
 The low sun stares through dust of 
 
 gold. 
 And o'er the darkening heath and 
 wold 
 The large ghost-moth doth flit. 
 In every orchard Autumn stands, 
 With apples in his golden hands. 
 
 But all these sights and sounds are 
 
 strange ; 
 Then wherefore from thee should I 
 
 range ? 
 Thou hast my kith and kin ; 
 My childhood, youth, and manhood 
 
 brave ; 
 Thou hast that unforgotten grave 
 
 Within thy central din. 
 A sacredness of love and death 
 Dwells in thy noise and smoky 
 
 breath. 
 
 Charlotte Smith. 
 
 THE CRICKET. 
 
 Little inmate, full of mirth. 
 Chirping on my humble hearth; 
 Wheresoe'er be thine abode. 
 Always harbinger of good. 
 Pay me for thy warm retreat 
 With a song most soft and sweet; 
 In return thou shalt receive 
 Such a song as I can give. 
 
 Tliough in voice and shape they be 
 Formed as if akin to thee, 
 Thou sin-passest, happier far, 
 Happiest grasshoppers that are; 
 Theirs is but a summer-song, 
 Tliine endures the winter long. 
 Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear. 
 Melody throughout the year. 
 
 Neither night nor dawn of day 
 Puts a period to thy lay : 
 Then, insect ! let thy simple song 
 Cheer the Avinter evening long; 
 While, secm"e from every storm. 
 In my cottage stout and warm. 
 Thou shalt my merry minstrel be, 
 And I" 11 delight to shelter thee. 
 
 THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 
 
 The garlands fade that Spring so 
 lately wove, 
 Each simple flower which she had 
 nursed in dew, 
 Anemones that spangled every grove, 
 The primrose wan, and harebell 
 mildly blue. 
 No more shall violets linger in the 
 dell, 
 Or purple orchis variegate the 
 l^lain. 
 Till Spring again shall call forth ev(>ry 
 bell, 
 And dress with humid hands her 
 wreaths again. 
 Ah! poor humanity! so frail, so 
 fair. 
 Are the fond visions of thy early 
 day, 
 Till tyrant passion and corrosive 
 care 
 Bid all thy fairy colors fade awaj'! 
 Another May new biuls and flowers 
 
 shall bring; 
 Ah! why has Happiness no second 
 Spring ? 
 
508 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 Florence Smith. 
 
 {From liainbow-Sovgs.] 
 
 THE PURPLE OF THE POET. 
 
 I 
 
 Purple, the passionate color! 
 
 Purple, the color of pain ! 
 I clothe myself in the rapture — 
 
 I count the suffering gain ! 
 
 The sea lies gleaming before me. 
 Pale in the smile of the sun — 
 
 No shadow — all golden and azure — 
 The joy of the day has begiui ! 
 
 Throbbing and yearning forever. 
 With longing unsatisfied, sweet — 
 
 Flushed with the pain and the raptm-e, 
 Warm at the sun-god's feet — 
 
 In the glow and gloom of the evening 
 The glory is reached — and o'er- 
 past ; 
 Joy's rose-bloom has ripened to pur- 
 ple — 
 'Twill fade, but the stars shine at 
 last! 
 
 Purple, the passionate color! 
 
 Robing the martyr, the king — 
 Regal in joy and in anguish, ' 
 
 Life's blossom ; with, ah! its 
 sting — 
 
 Give me the sovereign color — 
 I'll suffer that I may reign! 
 
 The poet's moment of ra^iture 
 Is worth the poet's jmin! 
 
 [ From Pain how-Songs.] 
 THE YELLOW OF THE MISER. 
 
 The beautiful color — the color of 
 
 gold ! 
 How it sparkles and burns in the 
 
 piled-up dust! 
 The poets ! they know not, they never 
 
 have told 
 Of the fadeless color, the color of 
 
 gold — 
 Of my god in whom I trust ! 
 Deep down in the earth it winds 
 
 and it creeps — 
 
 In her sluggish old veins 'tis the warm 
 
 rich blood — 
 The old mother-monster ! how soimd- 
 
 ly she sleeps ! 
 Come! nearest her heart, where the 
 
 strong life leaps — 
 We drink, we bathe in the flood ! 
 
 Ah, the far-off days! was I ever a 
 
 child ? 
 — My brain is so dark, and my heart 
 
 has grown cold. 
 Those fields where the golden-eyed 
 
 buttercups smiled 
 Long ago — did I love them with 
 
 heart undefiled '? 
 Did I seek the flowers for the 
 
 gold ? 
 
 Be still ! O thou traitor Remorse, 
 
 at my heart. 
 Whining without in the dark at the 
 
 door — 
 I know thee, the beggar and thief 
 
 that thou art, 
 Lying low at my threshold — I bid 
 
 thee depart! 
 Thou shalt dog my footsteps no 
 
 more. 
 
 Wilt thou bring me i\\o faded flow- 
 ers of my youth — 
 
 With hands full of dead leaves, and 
 lips full of lies — 
 
 For these shall I yield thee my treas- 
 ure, in sooth ? 
 
 Are the buttercup's petals pure gold, 
 say truth! 
 Wilt thou coin me the daisy's 
 eyes ? - 
 
 I hate them ! the smiling flowers in 
 the sun, 
 And the yellow, smooth rays that 
 
 they feed on at noon — 
 Tis the hard cold gold I will have or 
 
 none ! 
 Come, pluck me the stars down, one 
 by one, 
 Plant me the pale rich moon ! 
 
Ah ! the mystical seed, it has grown, 
 it has spread ! 
 — But the sharp star-points tliey are 
 
 piercing my brow, 
 And tlie rosy home-faces grow hvid 
 
 and dead 
 In the terrible color the fire-blossoms 
 shed — 
 I am reaping my harvest in now ! 
 
 The horrible color — the color of 
 flame ! 
 The hot sun has o'erflowed from his 
 
 broken urn — 
 O thou pitiless sky ! wilt thou show 
 
 me my shame ? 
 While the cursed gold clings to my 
 fingers like flame — 
 And glitters only to burn ! 
 
 SOMEBODY OLDER. 
 
 How pleasant it is that always 
 There's somebody older than you — 
 
 Some one to pet and caress you, 
 Some one to scold you too ! 
 
 Some one to call you a baby, 
 
 To laugh at you when you're wise; 
 
 Some one to care when you're sorry. 
 To kiss the tears from your eyes. 
 
 When life has begun to be weary. 
 And youth to melt like the dew. 
 
 To know, like the little children. 
 Somebody's older than you! 
 
 The path cannot be so lonely, 
 For some one has trod it before ; 
 
 The golden gates are the nearer. 
 That some one stands at the door ! 
 
 — I can think of nothing sadder 
 Than to feel, when days are few, 
 
 There's nobody left to lean on, 
 Nobody older than you ! 
 
 The younger ones may be tender 
 To the feeble steps and slow ; 
 
 But they can't talk the old times 
 over — 
 Alas ! how should they know ! 
 
 'Tisa romance to them — a wonder 
 You were ever a child at play; 
 
 But the dear ones waiting in Heaven 
 Know it is all as you say. 
 
 I know that the great All-Father 
 Loves us and the little ones too ; 
 
 Keep only child-like hearted — 
 Heaven is older than you! 
 
 UNUEQUITING. 
 
 I CANNOT love thee, but I hold thee 
 dear — 
 Thou must not stay — I cannot bid 
 thee go ! 
 I am so lonely, and the end draws 
 near — 
 Ah, love me still, but do not tell 
 me so ! 
 
 'Tis but a little longer — keep thy 
 faith ! 
 Though love's last rapture I shall 
 never know, 
 I fain would trust thee even unto 
 death ; 
 Ah, love me still, but do not tell 
 me so ! 
 
 I am so poor I have no self to give. 
 And less than all I will not offer, 
 no! 
 I die, but not for thee — fain would 
 I live — 
 Ay! love me still, but do not tell 
 me so ! 
 
 Like a strange flower that blossoms 
 in the night. 
 And dies at dawn, love faded long 
 ago — 
 Born in a dream it perished with the 
 light — 
 Lov'st thou me still ? Ah, do not 
 tell me so ! 
 
 Let me imagine that thou art my 
 friend — 
 No less — no more I ask for here 
 below ! 
 Be patient with me even to the end — 
 Loving me still, thou wilt not tell 
 me so! 
 
510 
 
 SMITE. 
 
 Those words were sweet once — never 
 
 more a2;ain 
 
 — I thought my dream had van- 
 ished, let it go! 
 I dreamed of joy — 1 woke, it turned 
 to pahi — [so ! 
 
 All, love me still, but never tell me 
 
 I cannot lose thee yet, so near to 
 heaven ! 
 There with diviner love all souls 
 shall glow; 
 
 There is no marriage bond, no vows 
 are given — 
 Thou'lt love me still, nor need to 
 tell me so ! 
 
 Ah! I am selfish, asking even this — 
 I cannot love thee, nor yet bid thee 
 go! 
 To utter love is nigh love's dearest 
 bliss — 
 Thou lov'st me still, and dost not 
 tell me so! 
 
 Horace Smith. 
 
 HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with 
 morn to twinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of earth's 
 creation, 
 And dew-drops on her lonely altars 
 sprinkle 
 
 As a libation! 
 
 Ye matin worshippers ! who bending 
 
 lowly 
 
 Before the uprisen sun — God's 
 
 lidless eye — [holy 
 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and 
 
 Incense on liigh! 
 
 Ye briglit mosaics ! that with storied 
 beauty 
 The floor of Nature's temple tes- 
 sellate, 
 What numerous emblems of instruc- 
 tive duty 
 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral 
 bell that swingeth 
 And tolls its perfume on the pass- 
 ing air, 
 Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever 
 ringeth 
 
 A call to prayer. 
 
 Not to the domes wliere crumbling 
 arch and column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal 
 hand, 
 
 But to that fane, most catholic and 
 solemn, 
 
 Whicli God hath planned ; 
 
 To that catliedral, boundless as our 
 wonder. 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun 
 and moon supply — 
 Its choir, the winds and waves ; its 
 organ, tlimider ; 
 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 There — as in solitude and shade I 
 Avander 
 Through the green aisles, or, 
 stretched upon the sod. 
 Awed by the silence, reverently pon- 
 der 
 
 The ways of God — 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are 
 living preachers, 
 Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a 
 book. 
 Supplying to my fancy, numerous 
 teachers 
 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 Floral apostles! that in deAAy sjilen- 
 dor 
 "Weep without Avoe, and blush 
 witliout a crime," 
 O may I deeply learn, and ne'er sur- 
 render, 
 
 Your lore sublime! 
 
SMITH. 
 
 511 
 
 " Thou wert not. Solomon! in all thy 
 glory. 
 Arrayed,'" the lilies cry, "in robes 
 like oiu's ; 
 How vain your grandeur! Ah, how 
 transitory 
 
 Are human flowers !' ' 
 
 In the sweet-scented pictures, Heav- 
 enly Artist! 
 With which thou paintest Nature's 
 wide-spread hall, 
 What a delightful lesson thou im- 
 partest 
 
 Of love to all. 
 
 Not useless are ye, flowers! though 
 made for pleasure: 
 Blooming o'er field and wave, by 
 day and night. 
 From every source your sanction bids 
 me treasure 
 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral sages! what instructors 
 
 hoary 
 For such a world of thought could 
 
 furnish scope ? 
 Each fading calyx a ineihento niori, 
 
 Yet fount of hope. 
 
 Posthumous glories! angel-like col- 
 lection ! 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interred 
 in earth. 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection. 
 And second birth. 
 
 Were I. O God. in churchless lands 
 remaining. 
 Far from all voice of teachers or 
 divines. 
 My soul would find in flowers of thy 
 ordaining. 
 
 Priests, sermons, shrines! 
 
 ADDRESS TO A MUMMY. 
 
 And thou hast walked about, (how 
 strange a stoiy!) 
 In Thebes's streets three thousand 
 years ago, 
 
 When the Memnonium was in all its 
 glory. 
 And Time had not begun to over- 
 throw 
 
 Those temples, palaces, and piles 
 stupendous. 
 
 Of which the very ruins are tremen- 
 dous. 
 
 Speak! for thou long enough hast 
 
 acted dummy ; 
 Thou hast a tongue — come — let 
 
 us hear its tune ; 
 Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above 
 
 ground, mummy! 
 Kevisiting the glimpses of the 
 
 moon — 
 Not like thin ghosts or disembodied 
 
 creatures. 
 But with thy bones, and flesh, and 
 
 limbs, and featui'es. 
 
 Tell us — for doubtless thou canst 
 
 recollect — 
 To whom should we assign the 
 
 Sphinx's fame ? 
 Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
 Of either Pyramid that bears his 
 
 name ? 
 Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 
 Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung 
 
 by Homer ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a mason, and for- 
 bidden 
 By oath to tell the secret of thy 
 trade — 
 
 Then say what secret melody was 
 hidden 
 In Memnon's statue, which at sun- 
 rise played ; 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a priest — if so. 
 my struggles 
 
 Are vain, for priestcraft never owns 
 its juggles. 
 
 Perhaps that very hand, now pin- 
 ioned flat. 
 Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, 
 glass to glass; 
 Or dropped a half -penny in Homer's 
 hat; 
 Or doffed thine own, to let Queen 
 Dido pass; 
 
512 
 
 SMITH. 
 
 Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
 A torch at the great Temple's dedica- 
 tion. 
 
 I need not ask thee if that hand, 
 
 when armed, 
 Has any Roman soldier mauled and 
 
 knuckled ; 
 For thou wert dead, and buried, and 
 
 embalmed, 
 Ere Ivomulus and Remus had been 
 
 suckled ; 
 Antiquity appears to have begun 
 Long after thy primeval race was run. 
 
 Thou could' st develop — if that with- 
 ered tongue 
 Might tell us what those sightless 
 orbs have seen — 
 
 How the world looked when it was 
 fresh and young, 
 And the great Deluge still had left 
 it green; Ipages 
 
 Or was it then so old that history's 
 
 Contained no record of its early ages ? 
 
 Still silent, incomnuuiicative elf! 
 Art swoi'n to secrecy ? then keep 
 thy vows ; 
 
 But prythee tell vis something of 
 thyself — 
 Reveal the secrets of thy prison- 
 house ; 
 
 Since in the world of spirits thou 
 hast slumbered — 
 
 What hast thou seen — ^what strange 
 adventures numbered ? 
 
 Since first thy form was in this box 
 
 extended 
 We have, above ground, seen some 
 
 strange mutations ; 
 The Roman empire has begun and 
 
 ended — 
 New worlds have risen — Ave have 
 
 lost old nations; 
 And countless kings have into dust 
 
 been humbled. 
 While not a fragment of thy flesh has 
 
 crumbled. 
 
 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er 
 
 thy head. 
 When the great Persian conqueror, 
 
 Cambyses, 
 Marched armies o'er thy tomb with 
 
 thundering tread — 
 O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, 
 
 Isis; 
 And shook the Pyramids with fear 
 
 and wonder. 
 When the gigantic Memnon fell 
 
 asunder ? 
 
 If the tomb's secrets may not be con- 
 fessed. 
 The nature of thy private life un- 
 fold: 
 
 A heart has throbbed beneath that 
 leathern breast, 
 And tears adown that dusky cheek 
 have rolled ; 
 
 Have children climbed those knees 
 and kissed that face ; 
 
 What was thy name and station, age 
 and race ? 
 
 Statue of flesh! Immortal of the 
 dead ! 
 Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
 
 Posthumous man, who quit' st thy 
 narrow bed. 
 And standest undecayed within our 
 presence ! 
 
 Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judg- 
 ment morning, 
 
 When the great trump shall thrill 
 thee \\ith its warning. 
 
 Why should this worthless tegument 
 endure, 
 If its undying guest be lost for- 
 ever ? 
 
 Oh! let us keep the soul embalmed 
 and pure 
 In living virtue— that when both 
 must sever. 
 
 Although corruption may our frame 
 consume. 
 
 The immortal spirit in the skies may 
 bloom ! 
 
SMITH. 
 
 513 
 
 May Riley Smith. 
 
 IF. 
 
 If, sitting with this Httle worn-out 
 shoe 
 And scarlet stocking lying on niy 
 knee, 
 I knew his little feet had pattered 
 through 
 The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt 
 heaven and nie, 
 I should be reconciled and happy too, 
 And look with glad eyes toward the 
 jasper sea. 
 
 If, in the morning, when the song of 
 birds. 
 Reminds me of lost music far more 
 sweet, 
 I listened for his pretty broken words. 
 And for the nuisic of his dimpled 
 feet, 
 I could be almost happy, though I 
 heard 
 No answer, and I saw his vacant 
 seat. 
 
 I could be glad if, when the day is 
 
 done, 
 
 And all its cares and heart-aches 
 
 laid away, [sun, 
 
 I couUl look westward to the hidden 
 
 And. with a heart full of sweet 
 
 yearnings, say — 
 
 " To-night I'm nearer to my little one 
 
 By just the travel of a single day." 
 
 If he were dead, I should not sit to- 
 day 
 And stain with tears the wee sock 
 on my knee; 
 I should not kiss the tiny shoe and say, 
 " Bring back again my little boy 
 to me ! ' ' 
 I should be patient, knowing it was 
 God's way. 
 And wait to meet him o'er death's 
 silent sea. 
 
 But oh ! to know the feet, once pure 
 and white, 
 The haunts of vice have boldly ven- 
 tured in I 
 
 The hands that shoidd have battled 
 for the right 
 Have been wrung crimson in the 
 clasp of sin ! 
 And should he knock at Heaven's 
 gate to-night, 
 I fear my boy could hardly enter in. 
 
 SOMETIME. 
 
 Sometime, when all life's lessons 
 
 have been learned. 
 And sun and stars forevermore 
 
 have set. 
 The things which oin- weak judg- 
 ments here have spurned, 
 The things o'er which we grieved 
 
 with lashes wet, 
 Will flash before us out of life's dark 
 
 night. 
 As stars shine most in deeper tints 
 
 of blue; 
 And we shall see how all God's plans 
 
 are right. 
 And how what seemed reproof was 
 
 love most true. 
 
 And we shall see how, while we 
 frown and sigh, 
 God's plans go on as best for you 
 and me; 
 How, when we called. He heeded not 
 our cry. 
 Because His wisdom to' the end 
 could see. 
 And e'en as prudent parents disallow 
 Too much of sweet to craving baby- 
 hood, 
 So God, perhaps, is keeping from us 
 now 
 Life's sweetest things, because it 
 seemeth good. 
 
 And if, sometimes, commingled with 
 life's wine. 
 We find the wormwood, and rebel 
 and shrink. 
 Be sure a wiser hand than yours or 
 mine 
 Pours out the potion for our lips to 
 drink; 
 
514 
 
 SOU THEY. 
 
 And if some friend we love is lying 
 low. 
 
 Where human kisses cannot reach his 
 face. 
 
 Oh, do not hlame the loving Father so, 
 But wear your sorrow with obe- 
 dient grace! 
 
 And you shall shortly know that 
 lengthened breath 
 Is not tiie sweetest gift God sends 
 His friend, 
 And that, sometimes, the sable pall 
 of death 
 Conceals the fairest boon His love 
 can send. [life. 
 
 If we could push ajar the gates of 
 And stand within and all God's 
 workings see. 
 
 We could interpret all this doubt and 
 
 strife [key. 
 
 And for each mystery could find a 
 
 But not to-day. Then be content, 
 
 poor heart; , 
 
 God's plans like lilies ])ure and 
 
 white luifold; 
 We must not tear the close-shut 
 
 leaves apart, [gold. 
 
 Time will reveal the calyxes of 
 
 And if, through patient toil, Ave 
 
 reach the land 
 Whei'e tired feet, with sandals 
 
 loosed, may rest. 
 When we shall clearly know and 
 
 understand, 
 1 think that we shall say, " (iod 
 
 knew the best! " 
 
 Caroline Bowles Southey. 
 
 LAUXCn THY HARK, MAUI MCI!. 
 
 Launch thy bark, mariner! 
 
 Christian, God speed thee: 
 Let loose the rudder bands. 
 
 Good angels lead thee ! 
 Set thy sails warily, 
 
 Tem))ests will come ; 
 Steer thy course steadily. 
 
 Christian, steer home! 
 
 Look to the weather bow. 
 
 Breakers are round thee : 
 Let fall the plunnnet now. 
 
 Shallows may ground thee. 
 Reef in the foresail, there ! 
 
 Hold the helm fast! 
 So — let the vessel wear, — 
 
 There swept the blast. 
 
 What of the night, watchman '? 
 
 What of the night ? 
 '"Cloudy, all quiet, — 
 
 No land yet, — all's riijht." 
 Be wakeful, be vigilant. — 
 
 Danger may be 
 7^t an hour wlien all seemeth 
 
 Seciu'est to thee. 
 
 How ! gains the leak so fast ? 
 Clear out the hold, — 
 
 Hoist up thy merchandise, 
 Heave out thy gold ; 
 
 There, let the ingots go; — 
 Now the ship riglits; 
 
 Hurrah! the harbor's near, - 
 Lol the red lights. 
 
 Slacken not sail yet 
 
 At inlet or island; 
 Straight for the beacon steer, 
 
 Straight for the high land; 
 Crowd all thy canvas on. 
 
 Cut through the foam : — 
 Christian! cast anchor now, ■ 
 
 Heaven is tliy home! 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-RED. 
 
 Ti;eai) softly! bow the head — 
 In revei'ent silence bow ! 
 
 No passing bell doth toll; 
 
 Yet an immortal soul 
 Is passing now. 
 
 Stranger, however great. 
 
 With lowly reverence bow! 
 There's one in that poor shed — 
 One by that paltry bed — 
 Greater than thou. 
 
SOUTHS Y 
 
 515 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 
 Lo ! Death doth keep his state ! 
 Enter! — no crowds attend — 
 Enter! — no guards defend 
 This palace gate. 
 
 Tliat pavement damp and cold 
 No smiling courtiers tread ; 
 
 One silent woman stands. 
 
 Lifting with meagre hands 
 A dying head. 
 
 No mingling voices sound — 
 
 An infant wail alone; 
 A sob sujipressed — again 
 That short deep gas]) — and then 
 
 The parting groan ! 
 
 O change ! — O wondrous change ! 
 
 Uurst are the prison bars! 
 This moment there, so low, 
 So agonized — and now 
 
 Beyond the stars ! 
 
 O change ! — stupendous change ! 
 
 There lies the soulless clod ! 
 The sun eternal breaks; 
 The new immortal wakes — 
 
 Wakes with his C4od. 
 
 / NEVER CAST A ELOWER AWAY. 
 
 I NEVER cast a flower away, ' 
 
 The gift of one who cared for me — 
 
 A little flower — a faded flower — 
 But it was done reluctantly. 
 
 I never looked a last adieu 
 
 To things familiar, but my heart 
 
 Shrank with a feeling almost pain 
 Even from their lifeleSsness to part. 
 
 1 never spoke the word " Farewell,"' 
 But with an utterance faint and 
 broken ; 
 
 An earth-sick longing for the time 
 When it shall nevermore be spoken, 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 
 [From Thalabn.] 
 
 A'A TERE'S QUEST/OX AXD FAITH'S 
 ANS WER. 
 
 Alas! the setting sun 
 Saw Zeinab in her bliss, 
 Hodeirah's wife beloved. 
 Alas ! the wife beloved. 
 The fruitful mother late. 
 Whom when the daughters of Arabia 
 named. 
 They wished their lot like hers, — 
 She Avanders o'er the desert sands 
 A wretched widow now; 
 The fruitful mother of so fair a race. 
 With only one preserved. 
 She wanders o'er the wilderness. 
 
 No tear relieved the burden of 
 her heart; 
 Stunned with the heavy woe, she 
 felt like one. 
 Half -wakened from a midnight dream 
 of blood. 
 But sometimes, when the boy 
 
 Would wet her hand with tears. 
 And, looking up to her fixed coun- 
 tenance. 
 Sob out the name of mother! then 
 she groaned. 
 At length collecting, Zeinab turned 
 her eyes 
 To heaven, and praised the Lord: 
 " He gave, he takes away! " 
 The pious sufferer cried ; 
 " The Lord our God is good ! " 
 
 " Good, is he ?'' quoth the boy: 
 "Why are my brethren and :iiy sis- 
 ters slain ? 
 Why is my father killed ? 
 Did ever we neglect our prayers, 
 Or ever lift a hand unclean to 
 Heaven ? 
 Did ever stranger from our tent 
 Unwelcomed turn away ? 
 Mother, He is not good!" 
 
 Then Zeinab beat her breast in 
 agony, — 
 " O God, forgive the child I 
 
51G 
 
 SOU THEY 
 
 He knows not what he says ; 
 
 The hand that wisely woxmded it. 
 
 Thou know'st I did not teach him 
 
 Repine not, my son ! 
 
 thoughts like these; 
 
 In wisdom and in mercy Heaven 
 
 O Pi'opliet, pardon him! " 
 
 inflicts 
 
 
 Its painful remedies." 
 
 Slie had not wept till that assuag- 
 
 
 ing prayer ; 
 
 
 The fountains of her grief were 
 
 
 opened then. 
 
 [From Thalaba.] 
 
 And tears relieved her heart. 
 
 THE TWOFOLD POWER OF ALL 
 
 She raised her swimming eyes to 
 
 THINGS. 
 
 heaven, — 
 
 
 " Allah I thy will be done! 
 
 All things have a double power, 
 
 Beneath the dispensations of that 
 
 Alike for good and evil. The same 
 
 will 
 
 fire. 
 
 I groan, but nuirmur not. 
 
 That on the comfortable hearth 
 
 A day" will come when all things 
 
 at eve 
 
 that are dark 
 
 Warmed the good man, flames o'er 
 
 Will be made clear: then sliall I 
 
 the house at night: 
 
 know, Lord ! 
 
 Should we for this forego 
 
 Why, in thy mercy, thou hast 
 
 Tlie needful element ? 
 
 stricken me ; 
 
 Because the scorching summer 
 
 Then see and understand what 
 
 sun 
 
 now 
 My heart believes and feels." 
 
 Darts fever, woiddst thou quench the 
 orb of day ? 
 
 
 Or deemest thou that Heaven in 
 
 
 anger formed 
 
 
 Iron to till the field, because, 
 
 [From Thalaba.] 
 
 
 
 when man 
 
 REMEDIAL tiUFFElilNG. 
 
 Had tipt his arrows for the chase, 
 he rushed 
 
 
 A murderer to the war '? 
 
 " Repine not, O my son!" the old 
 
 
 man replied. 
 
 
 " That Heaven hath chastened thee. 
 
 
 Behold this vine: 
 
 
 I found it a wild tree, whose wan- 
 
 [From Thafaha.] 
 
 ton strength 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Had swoln into irregular twigs. 
 
 
 And bold excrescences, 
 
 How beautiful is night ! 
 
 And spent itself in leaves and lit- 
 
 A dewy freshness fills" the silent 
 
 tle rings; 
 
 air; 
 
 So, in the floin-ish of its out- 
 
 No mist obscures, nor cloud nor speck 
 
 wardness. 
 
 nor stain 
 
 AVasting the sap and strength 
 
 Breaks the serene of heaven; 
 
 That should liave given forth 
 
 In full-orbed glory yonder moon 
 
 fruit. 
 
 divine 
 
 But when I pruned the plant. 
 
 Rolls through the dark blue 
 
 Then it grew temperate in its 
 
 depths. 
 
 vain expense 
 
 Beneath her steady ray 
 
 Of useless leaves, and knotted, as 
 
 The desert-circle spreads. 
 
 thou seest. 
 
 Like the romid ocean, girdled with 
 
 Into these full, clear clusters, to 
 
 the sky. 
 
 repay 
 
 How beautiful is night! 
 
SOUTHEY. 
 
 511 
 
 [From The Cume of Keliamn.] 
 LOVE'S IMMORTALITY. 
 
 TiiEY sill who tell us love can die. 
 With life all other passions tiy. 
 
 All others are but vanity. 
 In heaven, Ambition cannot dwell, 
 Nor Avarice in the vaults of hell; 
 Earthly, these passions of the earth 
 They perish where tliev had their 
 birth. 
 
 But Love is indestructible. 
 Its holy flaine forever burnetii. 
 From heaven it came, to heaven re- 
 
 turneth. 
 Too oft on earth a troubled guest. 
 At times deceived, at times oppressed, 
 
 It here is tried and puritied. 
 Then hath in heaven its perfect rest; 
 It sowetli here with toil and care, 
 But the harvest-time of Love is there. 
 Oh ! when a mother meets on high 
 The babe she lost in infancy. 
 Hath she not then, for pains and 
 fears. 
 
 The day of woe, the watchful night, 
 For all her sorrows, all her tears, 
 
 An over-ioayment of delight I 
 
 THE OLD MAX'S COMFORTS. AND 
 HOW HE GAINED THEM. 
 
 You are old. Father William, the 
 young man cried. 
 The few locks that are left you are 
 gray : 
 You ai'c hale. Father W'illiam, a 
 hearty old man, 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
 In the days of my youth, Father Wil- 
 liam replied, 
 I remembered that youth would fly 
 fast, 
 And abused not my health and my 
 vigor at first. 
 That i never might need them at 
 last. 
 
 You are old, Father William, the 
 young man cried. 
 And pleasures with youth pass 
 away. 
 
 And yet you lament not the days that 
 are gone. 
 Now tell me the reason, 1 pray. 
 
 In the days of my youth. Father Wil- 
 liam replied, 
 I remembered that youth could not 
 last ; 
 I thought of the future, whatever I 
 did. 
 That I never might grieve for the 
 past. 
 
 You are old. Father William, the 
 young man cried. 
 And life must be hastening away : 
 You are cheerful, and love to con- 
 verse upon death ! 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray. 
 
 I am cheerful, young man. Father 
 William replied ; 
 Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
 In the days of my youth I remem- 
 bered my God ! 
 And he hath not forgotten mv age. 
 
 [ From Joan of Arc.'] 
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS GIRDING 
 FOR BATTLE. 
 
 Sc'AKCE had the earliest ray from 
 
 Chinon's towers 
 Made visible the mists that curled 
 
 along 
 The winding waves of Yienne, when 
 
 from her couch 
 Started the martial maid. She 
 
 mailed her limbs: 
 The white plumes nodded o'er her 
 
 helmed head; 
 She girt the sacred falchion by her 
 
 side. 
 And, like some youth that from his 
 
 mother's arms. 
 For his first field impatient, breaks 
 
 away. 
 Poising the lance Avent forth. 
 
 Twelve hundred men, 
 Bearing in ordered ranks their well- 
 sharped spears, 
 
518 
 
 SOU THEY. 
 
 Await her coming. Terrible in arms, 
 
 Before tlicm towered Dmiois, his 
 manly face 
 
 Dark-shadowed by the helmet's iron 
 cheeks. 
 
 The assembled covirt gazed on the 
 marshalled train, 
 
 And at the gate the aged prelate stood 
 
 To pour his blessing on the chosen 
 host. 
 
 And now a soft and solemn sym- 
 phony 
 
 Was heard," and chanting high the 
 hallowed hynni, 
 
 From the near convent came the ves- 
 tal maids. 
 
 A holy banner, woven by virgin 
 hands. 
 
 Snow-white, they bore. A mingled 
 sentiment 
 
 Of awe, and eager ardor for the 
 fiilht. 
 
 Thrilled" through the troops, as he, 
 the reverend man 
 
 Took the white standard, and with 
 heavenward eye 
 
 Called on the C4od of .Justice, bless- 
 ing; it. 
 
 The maid, her brows in reverence 
 unhelmed. 
 
 Her dark hair floating on the morn- 
 ing gale. 
 
 Knelt to" iiis prayer, and stretching 
 forth her hand, 
 
 Received the mystic ensign. From 
 the host 
 
 A loud and universal shout burst 
 forth. 
 
 As rising from the ground, on her 
 white brow 
 
 Slie placed the plumed casque, and 
 waved on high 
 
 The bannered lilies. 
 
 THE HOLLY-TnEE. 
 
 O READKii! hast thou ever stood to 
 see 
 The holly-tree? 
 The eye that contemplates it well 
 perceives 
 Its glossy leaves 
 
 Ordered by an intelligence so wise 
 As might confound the atheist's 
 sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence, its leaves are 
 
 seen 
 Wrinkled and keen. 
 No grazing cattle through their 
 
 prickly round 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 But as they grow where nothing is 
 
 to fear. 
 Smooth and unarmed the pointless 
 
 leaves appear. 
 
 I love to view these things with cu- 
 rious eyes. 
 And moralize; 
 And in the wisdom of the holly-tree 
 
 Can emblems see 
 Wlierewith perchance to make a 
 
 pleasant rhyme. 
 Such as may profit in the after-time. 
 
 So, though abroad perchance I might 
 appear 
 Harsh and austere. 
 
 To those who on my leisure would in- 
 trude 
 Reserved and rude ; 
 
 Gentle at home amid my friends I'd 
 be. 
 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly- 
 tree. 
 
 And should my youth, as youth is apt, 
 I know. 
 Some harshness show. 
 All vain asperities, I day by day 
 
 Would wear away. 
 Till the smooth temper of my age 
 
 should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the holly- 
 tree. 
 
 And as when all the summer trees 
 are seen 
 So bright and green 
 
 The holly' leaves their fadeless hues 
 display 
 Less bridit than they. 
 
 But when the bare and wintry woods 
 we see. 
 
 What then so cheerful as the holly- 
 tree ? 
 
sou THEY. 
 
 519 
 
 So serious should my youth appear 
 among 
 The thoughtless throng ; 
 So would I seem au;id the young and 
 
 gay 
 
 More grave than they. 
 That in my age as cheerful I might be 
 As the green winter of the holly-tree. 
 
 THE PAUPER'S FUXEHAL. 
 
 AViiat! and not one to heave the 
 l^ious sigh '? 
 
 Not one whose sorrow-swollen and 
 aching eye 
 
 For social scenes, for life's endear- 
 ments fled. 
 
 Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the 
 dead ! 
 
 Poor wretched outcast! I will weep 
 for thee. 
 
 And sorrow for forlorn humanity. 
 
 Yes. I will weep; but not that thou 
 art come 
 
 To the stern sabbath of the silent 
 tomb : 
 
 For squalid want, and the black scor- 
 pion care, 
 
 Heart-withering fiends I shall never 
 enter there. 
 
 I sorrow for the ills thy life hath 
 known, 
 
 As through the world's long pilgrim- 
 age, alone. 
 
 Haunted by poverty, and M'oebegone. 
 
 Unloved, unfriended, thou didst jour- 
 ney on : 
 
 Thy youth in ignorance and labor 
 past. 
 
 And thine old age all barrenness and 
 blast. 
 
 Hard was thy fate, wdiicli, while it 
 doomed to woe. 
 
 Denied thee wisdom to support tlie 
 blow ; 
 
 And robbed of all its energy thy mind. 
 
 Ere yet it cast tliee on thy fellow- 
 kind. 
 
 Abject of thought, the victim of dis- 
 tress, 
 
 To wander in the world's wide wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 Poor outcast, sleep in peace! the win- 
 try storm 
 
 Blows bieak no more on thy unshel- 
 tered form; 
 
 Thy woes are past; thou restest in 
 the tond); — 
 
 I i^ause, and ponder on the days to 
 come. 
 
 WniTTEX^ ON SUNDAY MORNING. 
 
 Go thou and seek the house of 
 
 prayer ! 
 I to the w^oodlands wend, and there 
 In lovely nature see the God of love. 
 The swelling organ's peal 
 Wakes not my soul to zeal, 
 Like the wild music of the wind- 
 swept grove. 
 The gorgeous altar and the mystic 
 
 vest 
 Rouse not such ai'dor in my breast. 
 As where the noon-tide beam 
 Flashed from the brolven stream, 
 Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; 
 Or where the cloud-suspended rain 
 Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain"; 
 Or when reclining on the cliff's huge 
 
 height, 
 I mark the billows burst in silver 
 light. 
 
 Go thou and seek the house of 
 
 prayer 
 
 I to the woodlands shall repair. 
 Feed with all nature's charms mine 
 
 eyes. 
 And hear all nature's melodies. 
 The primrose bank shall there dis- 
 pense 
 Faint fragrance to the awaken(>d 
 
 sense : 
 The morning beams that life and 
 
 joy impart. 
 Shall with their influence warm my 
 
 heart, 
 And the full tear that down my 
 
 cheek will steal. 
 Shall speak the prayer of praise I 
 
 feel. 
 
 Go thou and seek the hous,' of 
 prayer ! 
 
I to the woodlands bend my way 
 
 And meet Keligion there. 
 She needs not haunt the high-arched 
 
 dome to pray 
 Where storied windows dim the 
 
 doubtful day. 
 AVith Liberty she loves to rove, 
 Wide o'er the heathy hill or cow- 
 
 slipt dale; 
 Or seek the shelter of the embower- 
 ing grove, 
 Or with the streamlet wind along 
 
 the vale. 
 Sweet are these scenes to her; and 
 
 when the night 
 Pours in the north her silver streams 
 
 of light, . 
 She woos reflection in the silent 
 
 gloom, 
 And ponders on the world to come. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 
 
 It was a summer evening. 
 Old Kaspar's work was done; 
 
 And he before his cottage door 
 AVas sitting in the sun, 
 
 And by him sported on the green 
 
 His little grandchild AVilhehnine. 
 
 She saw her brother Peterkin 
 Iioll something large and round, 
 
 That he beside the rivulet 
 In playing there, had found; 
 
 He came to ask what he had found, 
 
 That was so large, and smooth, and 
 round. 
 
 Old Kaspar took it from the boy, 
 
 AVho stood expectant by : 
 And then the old man shook his head, 
 
 AikI with a natural sigh, 
 'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, 
 AVho fell in the great victory. 
 
 I find them in the garden, for 
 
 There's many hereabout. 
 And often when I go to plough. 
 
 The ploughshare turns them out; 
 For many thousand men, said he, 
 AVere slain in the great victory. 
 
 Now tell us what 'twas all about, 
 
 Young Peterkin he cries. 
 And little Wilhelmine looks up 
 
 AA''ith wonder-waiting eyes; 
 Now tell us all about the war. 
 And what they killed each other for. 
 
 It was the English, Kaspar cried. 
 That put the Fi-ench to rout; 
 
 But what they killed each other for, 
 1 could not well make out. 
 
 But everybody said, quoth he, 
 
 That 'twas a famous victory. 
 
 My father lived at Blenheim then. 
 Yon little stream hard by. 
 
 They burnt his dwelling to the 
 ground. 
 And he was forced to fly; 
 
 So with his wife and child lie fled. 
 
 Nor had he where to rest his head. 
 
 AA^ith fire and sword the country 
 round 
 AA^as wasted far and wide, 
 And many a chikling mother then. 
 
 And new-born infant, died : 
 But things like that, you know, nuist 
 
 be 
 At every famous victory. 
 
 They say it was a shocking sight. 
 
 After the field was won. 
 For many thousand liodies here 
 
 Lay rotting in the sun ; 
 But things like that, you know, must 
 
 be" 
 After a famous victory. 
 
 Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' 
 won. 
 
 And our good Prince Eugene. 
 AA'liy. 'twas a very kicked thing! 
 
 Said little AV'ilhelmine. 
 Nay — nay — my little girl, quoth he, 
 It was a famous victory. 
 
 And everybody praised the Duke 
 
 AA^ho such a fight did win. 
 But what good came of it at last ? 
 
 Quoth little Peterkin. 
 AA'hy, that I cannot tell, said he, 
 But 'twas a famous victory. 
 
THE CATARACT OF LODOllE. 
 
 " How does the water 
 Come down at Lodore!'" 
 My little boy asked me 
 Thus, once on a time ; 
 
 And moreover he tasked me 
 
 To tell him in rhyme. 
 
 Anon, at the word; 
 
 There first came one daughter, 
 
 And then came anotlier. 
 
 To second and third 
 
 The request of their brother; 
 
 And to hear how the water 
 Comes down at Lodore, 
 AVith its rush and its roar, 
 
 As many a time 
 They had seen it before. 
 So 1 told them in rhyme. 
 
 For of rhymes I had store ; 
 
 And 'twas in my vocation 
 For tlieir recreation 
 That so I should sing; 
 
 Because I was laureate 
 To them and the kinir. 
 
 From its sources which well 
 In the tarn on the fell ; 
 From its fountains 
 In the mountains. 
 Its rills and its gills; 
 Through moss and through brake, 
 It runs and it creeps 
 For a while, till it sleeps 
 
 In its own little lake. 
 
 And thence at departing. 
 
 Awakening and starting. 
 
 It runs through the reeds, 
 
 And away it proceeds, 
 
 Through meadow and glade, 
 
 In sun and in shade. 
 And through the wood-shelter. 
 Among crags in its flurry. 
 Helter-skelter, 
 Ilurry-skuny, 
 Here it comes sparkling. 
 And there it lies darkling; 
 Now smoking and frothing 
 Its tumult and wrath in, 
 Till, in this rapid race 
 On which it is bent. 
 It reaches the place 
 Of its steep descent. 
 
 The cataract strong 
 Then plunges along. 
 Striking and raging 
 As if a war waging 
 Its caverns and rocks among; 
 Rising and leaping. 
 Sinking and creeping. 
 Swelling and sweeping. 
 Showering and springing, 
 Flying and flinging. 
 Writhing and ringing. 
 Eddying and whisking. 
 Spouting and frisking. 
 Turning and twisting, 
 Aroimd and around 
 Witli endless rebound : 
 Smiting and fighting 
 A sight to delight in ; 
 Confounding, astounding. 
 Dizzying and deafening the ear with 
 its sound. 
 
 Collecting, projecting, 
 Receding and speeding, 
 And shocking and I'ocking, 
 And darting and parting. 
 And threading and spreading. 
 And whizzing and hissing, • 
 And dripping and skipping. 
 And hitting and splitting. 
 And shining and twining, 
 And rattling and battling, 
 And shaking and quaking. 
 And pouring and roaring, 
 And waving ancf raving. 
 And tossing and crossing. 
 And flowing and going. 
 And running and stunning, 
 And foaming and roaming. 
 And dinning and si-inning. 
 And dropping and hopping, 
 And working and jerking. 
 And guggling and struggling. 
 And iieaving and cleaving. 
 And moaning and groaning; 
 And glittering and frittering. 
 And gathering and feathering. 
 And whitening and brightening. 
 And (piivering and shivering. 
 Ami hurrying and skurrying. 
 And thundermgand floundering; 
 
 Dividing and gliding and sliding. 
 And falling and brawling and 
 sprawling. 
 
b'2-2 
 
 sour HEY. 
 
 And driving and riving and striv- 
 ing, 
 
 xind sprinkling and twinlcling and 
 wrinkling, 
 
 And sounding and bounding and 
 rounding, 
 
 And bubbling and troubling and 
 doubling. 
 
 And grumbling and rumbling and 
 tumbling. 
 
 And clattering and battering and 
 shattering; 
 
 Retreating and beating and meeting 
 and sheeting. 
 
 Delaying and straying and playing 
 and spraying, 
 
 Advancing and prancing and glancing 
 and dancing, 
 
 Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and 
 boiling, 
 
 And gleaming and streaming and 
 steaming and beaming. 
 
 And rushing and Hushing and brush- 
 ing and gushing. 
 
 And flapping and rapping and clap- 
 ping, and slapping. 
 
 And curling and whirling and purl- 
 ing and twirling. 
 
 Ami thumping antl plumping and 
 bumping and jumping. 
 
 And dashing and flashing and splash- 
 ing and aiashing; 
 
 And so never ending, but always de- 
 scending. 
 
 Sounds and motions forever and ev^er 
 are blending 
 
 All rtt once, and all o'er, with a 
 mighty uproar, — 
 
 And this way, the water conies down 
 at Lodore. 
 
 THE EUn-TIDE. 
 
 Slowly thy flowing tide 
 Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did 
 
 mine eyes. 
 As watchfully 1 roamed thy green- 
 wood side, 
 Behold the gentle rise. 
 
 With many a stroke and strong. 
 The laboring boatmen upward plied 
 
 their oars, 
 And yet the eye beheld them labor- 
 ing long 
 Between thy winding shores. 
 
 Now down thine ebbing tide 
 The unlabored boat falls i-apidly 
 
 along, 
 The solitary helmsman sits to guide. 
 
 And sings an idle song. 
 
 Now o"er the rocks, that lay 
 So silent late, the shallow current 
 
 roars ; 
 Fast flow tliy waters on their sea- 
 ward way 
 Through wider-spreading shores. 
 
 >\_von ! I gaze and know ! 
 The wisdom emblemed in thy vary- 
 ing way, 
 It speaks of human joys that rise so 
 slow. 
 So rapidly decay. 
 
 Kingdoms that long have stood, 
 And slow to strength and power at- 
 tained at last. 
 Thus from the smnmit of high for- 
 tune's flood 
 Ebb to their ruin fast. 
 
 So tardily appears 
 The course of time to manhood's en- 
 vied stage, 
 Alas! how hurryingly the ebl)i!ig 
 years 
 'I'hen hasten to old age ! 
 
 TO THE FIRE. 
 
 My friendly fire, thou blazest clear 
 and bright. 
 Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grate- 
 ful flame; 
 Thy temperate splendor cheers the 
 gloom of night. 
 Thy geiual heat enlivens the 
 chilled frame. 
 
I lov0 to muse me o'er the evening 
 hearth, 
 I love to pause in meditation's 
 sway; 
 
 And whilst each object gives reflec- 
 tion birth, 
 Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy 
 slow decay ; 
 
 And I would wish, like thee, to shine 
 serene. 
 
 Like thee, within mine influence, 
 
 all to cheer; 
 Anil wish at last in life's declining 
 
 scene, 
 As I had beamed as bright, to fade 
 
 as clear: 
 So might my children ponder o'er my 
 
 shrine. 
 And o'er my ashes muse, as I will 
 
 muse o'er thine. 
 
 Robert Southwell. 
 
 CONTENT AND RICH. 
 
 My conscience is my crown ; 
 
 Contented thoughts, my rest ; 
 My heart is happy in itself. 
 
 My bliss is in my breast. 
 
 Enough I reckon wealth ; 
 
 That mean, the surest lot. 
 That lies too high for base contempt, 
 
 Too low for envy's shot. 
 
 My wishes are but few ; 
 
 All easy to fulfil: 
 I make the limits of my power 
 
 The bounds unto my will. 
 
 I fear no care for gold, 
 ' Well-doing is my wealth ; 
 My mind to me an empire is. 
 While grace affordeth health. 
 
 I clip high-climbing thoughts. 
 The wings of swelling pride; 
 
 Their fall is worst that from the height 
 Of greatest honor slide. 
 
 Since sails of largest size 
 The storm doth soonest tear, 
 
 I bear so low and small a sail 
 As f reeth me from fear. 
 
 I wrestle not witli rage 
 While fury's flame doth burn; 
 
 It is in vain to stop the stream 
 lentil the tide doth turn. 
 
 Tjut when the flame is out. 
 And ebbing wrath doth end, 
 
 I turn a late enraged foe 
 Into a quiet friend. 
 
 And, taught with often proof, 
 
 A tempered calm I And 
 To be most solace to itself. 
 
 Best cure for angry mind. 
 
 Spare diet is my fare. 
 
 My clothes more ht than flue; 
 I know I feed and clothe a foe. 
 
 That pampered would repine. 
 
 I envy not their hap 
 Whom favor doth advance; 
 
 I take no pleasure in their pain 
 That have less happy chance. 
 
 To rise by others' fall 
 
 I deem a losing gain ; 
 All states with others' ruin built 
 
 To ruin run amain. 
 
 Xo change of Fortune's calm 
 Can cast my comforts down : 
 
 When Fortune smiles, 1 smile to think 
 How quickly she will frown. 
 
 And when, in froward mood, 
 
 She proved an angry foe, 
 Small gain, I found, to let her come — 
 
 Less loss to let her go. 
 
524 
 
 SPENCER— SPENSER. 
 
 Robert William Spencer. 
 
 THE SPEED OF HAPPY HO UPS. 
 
 Too late I stayed— forgive the crime- 
 Unheeded flew the hours : 
 
 How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
 That only treads on flowers I 
 
 And who, with clear account, remarks 
 The ebbings of his glass, 
 
 When all its sands are diamond 
 sparks, 
 That dazzle as they pass ? 
 
 Ah ! who to sober measurement 
 Time's happy swiftness brings, 
 
 When birds of paradise have lent 
 Their ijlumage to his wings ? 
 
 Edmund Spenser. 
 
 \_From The Epi halamium.] 
 
 THE BUIDE BEAUTIFUL, BODY 
 AND SOUL. 
 
 Now is my love all ready forth to 
 
 come : 
 Let all the virgins therefore well 
 
 await ; 
 And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon 
 
 her groom. 
 Prepare yourselves, for he is coming 
 
 straight. 
 Set all your things in seemly good 
 
 array. 
 Fit for so joyful day : 
 The joyfuU'st day that ever sun did 
 
 see. 
 Fair sun! show forth thy favorable 
 
 ray, 
 And let thy lifef ul heat not fervent be, 
 For fear of burning her sunshiny face. 
 Her beauty to disgrace. 
 O fairest Phrebus ! father of the Muse ! 
 If ever I did honor thee aright, 
 Or sing the thing that might thy 
 
 mind delight. 
 Do not thy servant's simple boon 
 
 refuse. 
 But let this day, let this one day be 
 
 mine; 
 Let all the rest be thine. 
 Then I thy sovereign praises loud will 
 
 sing. 
 That all the woods shall answer, and 
 
 their echo ring. 
 
 Lo! where she comes along with 
 
 portly pace. 
 Like Phcebe, from her chamber of 
 
 the east. 
 Arising forth to run her mighty race. 
 Clad all in white, that seems a virgin 
 
 best. 
 So well it her beseems, that ye would 
 
 ween 
 Some angel she had been. 
 Her long loose yellow locks; like 
 
 golden wire 
 Sprinkled \\\t\\ pearl, and pearling 
 
 tlowers atween, 
 Do like a golden mantle her attire; 
 And being crowned with a garland 
 
 green. 
 Seem like some maiden queen. 
 Her modest eyes, abashed to behold 
 So many gazers as on her do stare. 
 Upon the lowly ground affixed are; 
 Ne dare lift up her countenance too 
 
 bold, 
 But blush to hear her praises sung so 
 
 loud. 
 So far from being proud. 
 Nathless do ye still loud her praises 
 
 sing. 
 That all the woods may answer, and 
 
 your echo ring. 
 
 Tell me, ye merchants' daughters, did 
 ye see 
 
 So fair a creature in your town be- 
 fore '? 
 
SPENSEB. 
 
 525 
 
 So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as 
 
 she, 
 Adorned with beauty's grace and 
 
 virtue's store; 
 Her goodly eyes like sapphires shin- 
 ing bright, 
 Her forehead ivory white. 
 Her clieeks like apples which the sun 
 
 hatli ruddied. 
 Her lips lilce cherries charming men 
 
 to bile. 
 Her breast like to a bowl of cream 
 
 uncrudded. 
 Why stand ye still, ye virgins in 
 
 amaze, 
 Upon her so to gaze, 
 Whiles ye forget yom* former lay to 
 
 sing 
 To which the woods did answer, and 
 
 your echo ring ! 
 
 But if ye saw that which no eyes can 
 
 see. 
 The inward beauty of her lively 
 
 sprite. 
 Garnished with heaven by gifts of 
 
 high degree. 
 Much more then would ye wonder at 
 
 that sight. 
 And stand astonished like to those 
 
 which read 
 Medusa's mazeful head. 
 There dwells sweet Love, and con- 
 stant Chastity, 
 Unspotted Faith, and comely Wom- 
 anhood, 
 Regard of Honor, and mild Modesty; 
 There Virtue reigns as queen in royal 
 
 tlirone. 
 And giveth laws alone. 
 The which the base affections do obey, 
 And yield their services unto her 
 
 will: 
 Ne thought of things uncomely ever 
 
 may 
 Thereto approach to tempt her mind 
 
 to ill. 
 Had ye once seen these her celestial 
 
 treasures. 
 And unrevealed pleasures. 
 Then would ye wonder and her i^raises 
 
 sing. 
 That all the woods would answer, and 
 
 your echo ring. 
 
 [From The Faerie Queene.'\ 
 THE CAPTIVE SOUL. 
 
 What war so cruel, or what siege so 
 
 sore. 
 As that which strong affections do 
 
 apply 
 Against the fort of Reason evermore. 
 To bring the soul into captivity '> 
 Their force is fiercer through infir- 
 mity 
 Of the frail flesh, relenting to their 
 
 rage ; 
 And exercise most bitter tyranny 
 Upon the parts brought into their 
 
 bondage ; 
 No wretchedness is like to sinful vil- 
 lainage. 
 
 [From The Faerie Queene.] 
 A VARICE. 
 
 And greedy Avarice by him did ride. 
 Upon a camel laden all with gold ; 
 Two iron coffers hung on either side. 
 With precious metal full as they 
 
 might hold ; 
 And in his lap a heap of coin he told : 
 For of his wicked pelf his God he 
 
 made, 
 And vmto hell himself foi' money sold ; 
 Accursed usury was all his trade; 
 And right and wrong alike in equal 
 
 balance weighed. 
 
 His life was nigh unto death's door 
 
 yplaced. 
 And threadbare coat and cobbled 
 
 shoes he ware ; 
 Ne scarce good morsel all his life did 
 
 taste ; 
 But both from back and belly still 
 
 did spare. 
 To fdl his bags, and riches to com- 
 pare ; 
 Yet child nor kinsman living had he 
 
 none 
 To leave them to; but thorovigh daily 
 
 care 
 To get, and nightly fear to lose, his 
 
 own. 
 He led a wretched life unto himself 
 
 imknown. 
 
526 
 
 .SFL-A^SEIi 
 
 Most wretched wight, whom nothing 
 might suffice, 
 
 AVhose greedy lust did iaeli. in- great- 
 est store, 
 
 Whose need liad end, but no end 
 covetize, 
 
 Whose weallli was want, whose 
 plenty made him poor, 
 
 Who had enough, yet wished ever- 
 more; 
 
 A vile disease; and eke in foot and 
 hand 
 
 A grievous gout tormented him full 
 sore. 
 
 That well lie could not touch, nor go, 
 nor stand. 
 
 Such one was Avarice, the fourth of 
 this fair band. 
 
 [Ffoiii Tlic Faerie Queene.] 
 UXA AND THE LION. 
 
 Nought is thereunder heaven's wide 
 
 hollowness 
 That moves more dear compassion 
 
 of mind 
 Than beauty brought t' uuMorthy 
 
 wretchedness 
 Through envy's snares, or fortune's 
 
 freaks inikind. 
 I, whether lately through her bright- 
 ness blind. 
 Or through allegiance and fast fealty. 
 Which I do owe unto all Avoman- 
 
 kind. 
 Feel my heart pierced with so great 
 
 agony. 
 When such I see, that all for pity I 
 
 could die. 
 
 And now it is impassioned so deep. 
 
 For fairest Una's sake, of whom 1 
 sing. 
 
 That my frail eyes these lines Avith 
 tears do steep. 
 
 To think how she through guileful 
 handling, 
 
 Though true as touch, though daugh- 
 ter of a king. 
 
 Though fair as ever living wight was 
 fair, 
 
 Though noi' in word nor deed ill- 
 meriting, 
 
 Is from her knight divorced in de- 
 spair. 
 
 And her due loves derived to that 
 vile witch's share. 
 
 Yet, she most faithful lady all this 
 
 Avhile, 
 Forsaken, woful, solitary maid. 
 Far from all people's preace, as in 
 
 exile, 
 In wilderness and wasteful deserts 
 
 strayed. 
 To seek her knight; who, subtily 
 
 betrayed 
 Through that late vision, which th" 
 
 Enchanter wrought. 
 Had her abandoned. She of nought 
 
 afraid, 
 Through woods and wasteness wide 
 
 him daily sought; 
 Yet wished tidings none of him unto 
 
 her brought. 
 
 One day, nigh weary of the irksome 
 
 way. 
 From her uidiasty beast she did 
 
 aliglit. 
 And on the grass her dainty limbs 
 
 did lay 
 In secret shadow, far from all men's 
 
 sight: 
 From her fair head her fillet she 
 
 nndight. 
 And laid her stole aside. Her an- 
 gel's face. 
 As the great eye of heaven, shined 
 
 bright. 
 And made a sunshine in the shady 
 
 place ; 
 Dill never mortal eye behold such 
 
 heavenly grace. 
 
 It fortimed, out of the thickest wood 
 A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
 Hunting full greedy after salvage 
 
 blood ; 
 Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 
 With gaping mouth at her ran greed- 
 
 To have at once devoured her tender 
 corse : 
 
UNA AND THE LION. 
 
 Page 524. 
 
SF£!NSER. 
 
 527 
 
 But to the prey whenas he drew 
 more nigh, 
 
 His bloody rage assuaged with re- 
 morse, 
 
 And, witli the sight amazed, forgot 
 his furious force. 
 
 Instead tliereof lie kissed her weary 
 feet, 
 
 And licked her lily hands with fawn- 
 ing tongue. 
 
 As he her wronged innocence did 
 weet. 
 
 Oh, how can beauty master the most 
 strong, 
 
 And simple truth subdue avenging 
 wrong! 
 
 Whose yielded pride and proud sub- 
 mission, 
 
 ►Still di-eading death, when she had 
 marked long. 
 
 Her heart 'gan melt in great compas- 
 sion. 
 
 And drizzling tears did shed for pure 
 affection. 
 
 [From The Faerie Qtieene.] 
 A HOSPITAL. 
 
 Eftsoones unto an holy hospital. 
 
 That was foreby the way, she did 
 him bring; 
 
 In which seven Bead-men, that had 
 vowed all 
 
 Their life to service of high heaven's 
 king. 
 
 Did spend their days in doing godly 
 things: 
 
 Their gates to all were open ever- 
 more, 
 
 That by the weary way A\ere travel- 
 ling; 
 
 And one sat waiting ever them be- 
 fore. 
 
 To call in comers by, that needy were 
 and poor. 
 
 The first of them, that eldest was and 
 best. 
 
 Of all I lie house had charge and gov- 
 ernment, 
 
 As guardian and steward of the 
 rest : 
 
 His office was to give entertainment 
 
 And lodging unto all that came and 
 went ; 
 
 Not unto such as could him feast 
 again. 
 
 And double quite for that he on them 
 spent ; 
 
 But such, as want of harbor did con- 
 strain : 
 
 Those for God's sake his duty was to 
 entertain. 
 
 The second was as almoner of the 
 
 place : 
 His office was the hungry for to 
 
 feed. 
 And thirsty give to drink ; a work of 
 
 grace ; 
 He feared not once himself to be in 
 
 need, 
 Ne cared to hoard for those whom 
 
 he did breed : 
 The grace of God he laid up still in 
 
 store. 
 Which as a stock he left unto his 
 
 seed ; 
 He had enough; what need him care 
 
 for more ? 
 And had he less, yet some he would 
 
 give to the poor. 
 
 The third had of their wardrobe 
 
 custody. 
 In Mhicli were not rich tires, nor 
 
 garments gay. 
 The plumes of pride and wings of 
 
 vanity. 
 But clothes meet to keep keen cold 
 
 away, 
 And naked nature seemly to ari-ay ; 
 With which bare wretched wights lie 
 
 daily clad. 
 The images of God in earthly clay ; 
 And if that no spare clothes to give 
 
 he had. 
 His own coat he would cut, and it 
 
 distribute glad. 
 
 The fourth appointed by his office 
 was 
 
 Poor prisoners to relieve with gra- 
 cious aid, 
 
 528 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 ■r^' 
 
 And captives to redeem with price of 
 
 brass 
 From Turks and Saracens, whicli 
 
 tliem liad stayed ; 
 And tliougli they faulty were, yet 
 
 well he weighed, 
 That God to us forgiveth every hour 
 Much more than that, why they in 
 
 bands were laid; 
 And he, that harrowed hell with 
 
 heavy store, 
 The faulty souls from thence brought 
 
 to his heavenly bower. 
 
 The fifth had charge sick persons to 
 
 attend. 
 And comfort those in point of death 
 
 which lay; 
 For them most needeth comfort in 
 
 the end, 
 When sin, and hell, and death, do 
 
 most dismay 
 The feeble soul departing hence 
 
 away. 
 All is but lost, that living we bestow. 
 If not well ended at our dying day. 
 O man, have mind of that last bitter 
 
 throe ; 
 For as the tree does fall, so lies it 
 
 ever low. 
 
 [From The Faerie Queene.] 
 VICTOR r FROM GOD. 
 
 What man is he that boasts of fleshly 
 
 might 
 And vain assurance of mortality? 
 Which, all so soon as it doth come to 
 
 fight 
 Against spiritual foes, yields by and 
 
 by, 
 Or from the field most cowardly doth 
 
 fiy; 
 
 Ne let the man ascribe it to his skill, 
 
 That thorough grace hath gained vic- 
 tory. 
 
 If any strength we have, it is to ill; 
 
 But all the good is God's, both power 
 and eke will. 
 
 [From The Faerie Queene.] 
 AXGELIC CARE. 
 
 And is there care in heaven ? and is 
 there love 
 
 In heavenly spirits to these crea- 
 tures base. 
 
 That may compassion of their evils 
 move ? 
 
 There is : — else much more wretch- 
 ed were the case 
 
 Of men than beasts. But oh ! th' ex- 
 ceeding grace 
 
 Of Highest God that loves his crea- 
 tures so, 
 
 xind all his works with mercy doth 
 embrace. 
 
 That blessed angels he sends to and 
 fro. 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his 
 wicked foe! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers 
 leave 
 
 To come to succor us that succor 
 want ! 
 
 How oft do they with golden pin- 
 ions cleave 
 
 The flitting skies, like flying pur- 
 suivant, [tant! 
 
 Against foul fiends to aid us mili- 
 
 Tliey for us fight, they watch and 
 duly ward. 
 
 And their bright squadrons round 
 about us plant ; 
 
 And all for love and nothing for 
 re^ai-d ; 
 Oh, why should Heavenly God to men 
 have such regard ! « 
 
SPOFFORD. 
 
 529 
 
 Harriet Prescott Spofford. 
 
 HEREAFTER. 
 
 Love, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, 
 When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast. 
 
 When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us. 
 And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed, — 
 
 Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth. 
 Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth; 
 
 Fragrance fanning off from flowers, melody of summer showers. 
 Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires roimd the happy autumn liearth. 
 
 That's our love. But you and I, dear, — shall we linger with it yet, 
 Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one siuibeam's golden net, — 
 On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen but you the blossom, 
 Stream on sunset winds, and be the haze with which some hill is wet ? 
 
 Oh, beloved, — if ascending, — when we have endowed the world 
 With the best bloom of oiu- being, whither will our way be whirled ; 
 
 Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful holy places, 
 With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled? 
 
 Only this our yearning answers, — whereso'er that way defile. 
 Not a film shall pai't us through the aeons of that mighty while, 
 
 In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, 
 Floating, floating, one forever, in the light of God's great smile! 
 
 THE NUN AND HARP. 
 
 What memory fired her pallid face, 
 "Wliat passion stirred her blood. 
 
 What tide of sorrow and desire 
 Poured its forgotten flood 
 
 Upon a heart that ceased to beat, 
 
 Long since, with thought that life 
 was sweet 
 
 When nights were rich with vernal 
 dus^k. 
 And the rose burst its bud ? 
 
 Had not the western glory then 
 
 Stolen through the latticed room, 
 Her funeral raiment would have shed 
 
 A more heart-breaking gloom ; 
 Had not a dimpled convent-maid 
 Hung in the doorway, half afraid. 
 And left the nielanclioly i)lace 
 Bright with her blush and bloom! 
 
 Beside the gilded harp she stood. 
 And through the singing strings 
 
 Wound those wan hands of folded 
 prayer 
 In murnuu'ous preludings. 
 
 Then, like a voice, the harp rang 
 high 
 
 Its melody, as climb the sky. 
 
 Melting against the melting blue, 
 Some bird's vibrating wings. 
 
 Ah, why, of all the songs that grow 
 
 Forever tenderer. 
 Chose she that passionate refrain 
 
 Where lovers 'mid the stir 
 Of wassailers that round them i)ass 
 Hide their sweet secret ? Now, 
 
 alas. 
 In her nim's habit, coifed and veiled. 
 
 What meant that song to her ! 
 
530 
 
 SPOFFORD. 
 
 Slowly the western ray forsook 
 
 The statue in its shrine; 
 A sense of tears thrilled all the air 
 
 Along the purpling line. 
 Earth seemed a place of graves that 
 
 rang 
 To hollow footsteps, while she sang, 
 " Drink to nie only with thine eyes. 
 
 And I will pledge Avith mine! " 
 
 OUR NEIGHBOR* 
 
 Old neighbor, for how many a year 
 The same horizon, stretching here. 
 Has held us in its happy bound 
 From Iiivermouth to Ipswich Sound ! 
 How many a wave-washed day we've 
 
 seen 
 Above that low horizon lean. 
 And marked within the Merrimack 
 The self-same sunset reddening back. 
 Or in the Powow's shining stream. 
 That silent river of a dream ! 
 
 Where Craneneck o'er the woody 
 
 gloom 
 Lifts her steep inile of apple-bloom : 
 AVhere Salisbury Sands, in yellow 
 
 length 
 With the great breaker measures 
 
 strength ; 
 Where Artichoke in shadow slides, 
 The lily on her painted tides — 
 There's naught in the enchanted view 
 That does not seem a part of you ; 
 Your legends hang on every hill, 
 Your songs have made it dearer still. 
 
 Yours is the river-road; and yours 
 Are all the mighty meadow floors 
 Where the loiig Hampton levels lie 
 Alone between the sea and sky. 
 Fresher in Follymill shall blow 
 The Mayflowers, that you loved them 
 
 so; 
 Prouder Deer Island's ancient pines 
 Toss to their measure in your lines ; 
 And purpler gleam old Appledore, 
 Because youff oot has trod her shore. 
 
 Still shall the great Cape wade to 
 
 meet 
 The storms that fawn about her feet, 
 
 The summer evening linger late 
 In many-rivered Stackyard Gate, 
 When we, when all your people here, 
 Have fled. But like the atmosphere, 
 You still the region shall surromid, 
 The spirit of the sacred ground. 
 Though you have risen, as mounts 
 
 the star, 
 Into horizons vaster far! 
 
 PALMISTRY. 
 
 A IJTTLE hand, a fair soft hand 
 Dimpled and sweet to kiss : 
 
 No sculptor ever carved from stone 
 A lovelier hand than this. 
 
 A hand as idle and as white 
 
 As lilies on their stems ; 
 Dazzling with rosy finger-tips, 
 
 Dazzling with crusted gems. 
 
 Another hand, — a tired old hand. 
 Written with many lines ; 
 
 A faithful, weary hand, whereon 
 The pearl of great price shines! 
 
 For folded, as the winged fly 
 
 Sleeps in the chrysalis. 
 Within this little palm I see 
 
 That lovelier hand tban this ! 
 
 * J. G. Whittier. 
 
 FANTASIA. 
 
 We're all alone, we're all alone! 
 The moon and stars are dead and 
 
 gone : 
 The night's at deep, the wind asleep. 
 And thou and I are all alone ! 
 
 What care have we though life there 
 
 be? 
 Tumult and life are not for me! 
 Silence and sleep about us creep; 
 Timiult and life are not for thee! 
 
 How late it is since such as this 
 Had topped the height of breathing 
 
 bliss! 
 And now we keep an iron sleep, — 
 In that grave thou, and I in this ! 
 
A FOUH-0' CLOCK. 
 
 Ah, happy day, refuse to go ! 
 Hang in the heavens forever so! 
 Forever in mid-afternoon. 
 All, liappy day of hap])y June! 
 Pour out tliy sunshine on the hill, 
 The piny wood with perfume fill, 
 And breathe across the singing sea 
 Land-scented breezes, that shall be 
 Sweet as the gardens that they pass. 
 Where children tumble in the grass ! 
 
 Ah, hajjpy day, refuse to go ! 
 Hang in the heavens forever so ! 
 And long not for thy blushing rest 
 In the soft bosom of the west, 
 But bid gray evening get her back 
 With all tlie stars upon her track ! 
 Forget the dark, forget the dew. 
 The mystery of the midnight blue. 
 And only spread thy wide warm 
 wings [flings! 
 
 While Summer her enchantment 
 
 Ah, happy day, refuse to go! 
 
 Hang in the heavens forever so ! 
 
 Forever let thy tender mist 
 
 Lie lilie dissolving amethyst 
 
 Deep in tlie distant dales, and shed 
 
 Tliy mellow glory overhead ! 
 
 Yet wilt thou wander, — call the 
 
 thrush, 
 And have the Avilds and waters hush 
 To hear his passion-broken tune. 
 Ah, happy day of happy June! 
 
 A SAOIFDROP. 
 
 Only a tender little thing. 
 So velvet soft and white it is; 
 
 But March himself is not so strong, 
 With all the great gales that are his. 
 
 In vain his whistling storms lie calls, 
 In vain the cohorts of his power 
 
 Bide down the sky on mighty 
 blasts — 
 He cannot crush the little flower. 
 
 Its white spear parts the sod, the 
 snows 
 Than that white spear less snowy 
 are. 
 
 The rains roll off its crest like spray, 
 It lifts again its spotless star. 
 
 Blow, blow, dark March! To meet 
 you here, 
 Thrust upward from the central 
 gloom. 
 The stellar force of the old earth 
 Pulses to life in this slight bloom. 
 
 MY OWK SOXG. 
 
 Oh, glad am I that I was born ! 
 For who is sad when flaming morn 
 Bursts forth, or when the mighty 
 
 night 
 Carries the soul from height 
 
 height ! 
 
 to 
 
 To me, as to the child that sings. 
 The bird that claps his rain-washed 
 
 Avings, I flower. 
 
 The breeze that curls the sun-tipped 
 Comes some new joy with each new 
 
 hour. 
 
 •Joy in the beauty of the earth, 
 Joy in the fire upon tlie hearth, 
 Joy in that iDoteucy of love 
 In which I live and breathe and move ! 
 
 Joy even in the shapeless thought 
 That, some day, when all tasks are 
 
 wrought, 
 I shall explore that vasty deep 
 Beyond the frozen gates of sleep. 
 
 For joy a'ttunes all beating things, 
 With me each rhythmic atom sings. 
 From glow till gloom, from mirk till 
 
 morn ; 
 Oh, glad am I that I was born ! 
 
 MEASURE FOR MEASURE. 
 
 What love do I bring you? The 
 
 earth. 
 Full of love, were far lighter; 
 The great hollow sky. full of love, 
 
 Something slighter. 
 
 Earth full and heaven full were less 
 
 Than the full measure given ; 
 Nay, say a heart full, — the heart 
 Holds earth and heaven ! 
 
532 
 
 SPRAGUE. 
 
 Charles Sprague. 
 
 ODE ON ART. 
 
 When, from the sacred garden driven, 
 Man fled before his Maker's wrath, 
 An angel left her place in heaven. 
 And crossed the wanderer's snnless 
 path, 
 ' Twas Ai't ! sweet Art ! new radiance 
 broke 
 Where her light foot flew o'er the 
 ground. 
 And thus, with seraph voice she 
 spoke — 
 " The Curse a blessing shall be 
 found." 
 
 ,She led him through the trackless 
 wild. 
 Where noontide svmbeam never 
 blazed ; 
 The thistle shrunk, the harvest 
 smiled ; 
 And Nature gladdened as she gazed. 
 Earth's thousand tribes of living 
 things, 
 At Art's command, to him are 
 given ; 
 The village grows, the city springs. 
 And point their spires of faith to 
 heaven. 
 
 He rends the oak — and bids it ride, 
 To guard the shores its beauty 
 graced ; 
 He sniites the rock — upheaved in 
 Ijride, 
 See towers of strength, and domes 
 of taste. 
 Earth's teeming caves their wealth 
 reveal. 
 Fire bears his banner on the wave. 
 He bids the mortal poison heal. 
 And leaps triumphant o'er the 
 grave. 
 
 He plucks the pearls that stud the 
 deep, 
 Admiring Beauty's lap to fill; 
 He breaks the stubborn marble's 
 sleep. 
 And mocks his own Creator's skill. 
 
 With thoughts that swell his glowing 
 soul. 
 He bids the ore illume the page, 
 And, proudly scorning Time's con- 
 trol. 
 Commerces with an unborn age. 
 
 In fields of air he Avrites his name. 
 And treads the chambers of the 
 sky; 
 He reads the stars, and grasps the 
 flame 
 That quivers round the Throne on 
 high. 
 In war renowned, in peace sublime. 
 
 He moves in greatness and in grace ; 
 His power, subduing space and time, 
 Links realm to realm and race to 
 race. 
 
 THE WINGED WORSHIPPEnS. 
 
 Gay, guiltless pair, 
 What seek ye from the fields of 
 
 heaven ? 
 Ye have no need of prayer, 
 Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 
 
 Why perch ye here. 
 Where mortals to their Maker bend '? 
 
 Can your pure spirits fear 
 The God ye never could offend '? 
 
 Ye never knew 
 The crimes for which we come to 
 
 weep. 
 Penance is not for you. 
 Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 
 
 To you, 'tis given 
 To wake sweet Nature's untaught 
 lays; 
 Beneath the arch of heaven 
 To chirp away a life of praise. 
 
 Then spread each wing, 
 Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands. 
 
 And join the choirs that sing 
 In yon blue dome not reared with 
 hands. 
 
S PRAGUE. 
 
 53^ 
 
 Or, if ye stay, 
 To note the consecrated hour. 
 
 Teach nie the airy way. 
 And let me try your envied power. 
 
 Ahove the crowd, 
 On upward wings could I but fly, 
 I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
 And seek the stars that gem the sky. 
 
 'Twere Heaven indeed 
 
 Through fields of trackless light to 
 
 soar. 
 
 On Nature's charms to feed, 
 
 And Nature's own great God adore. 
 
 THE FAMILY MEETING. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother. 
 All who hold each other dear. 
 Each chair is filled — we're all at 
 
 home ; 
 To-night let no cold stranger come; 
 It is not often thus around 
 Our old familiar hearth we're found. 
 Bless, then, the meeting and the spot ; 
 For once be every care forgot ; 
 Let gentle Peace assert her power, 
 And kind Affection rule the hour; 
 
 We're all — all here. 
 
 We're not all here! 
 Some are away — the dead ones dear, 
 Who thronged with us this ancient 
 
 hearth, 
 And gave the hour to guiltless mirth. 
 Fate, with a stern, relentless hand. 
 Looked in and thinned our little band ; 
 Some like a night-flash passed away. 
 And some sank, lingering, day by day; 
 The quiet graveyard — some lie 
 
 there — 
 And cruel Ocean has his share — 
 AVe're not all here. 
 
 We are all here! 
 Even they — the dead — though dead, 
 
 so dear. 
 Fond Memory, to her duty true. 
 Brings back their faded forms to 
 
 How life-like, through the mist of 
 years, 
 
 Each well-remembered face appears ! 
 
 We see them as in times long past; 
 
 From each to each kind looks are 
 cast; 
 
 We hear their Avords, their smiles be- 
 hold. 
 
 They're round us as they were of 
 old — 
 We are all here. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother, 
 You that I love with love so dear. 
 This may not long of us be said ; 
 Soon must we join the gathered dead ; 
 And by the hearth we now sit round 
 Some other circle will be found. 
 Oh, then, that wisdom may we know, 
 Which yields a life of peace below! 
 So, in the world to follow this, 
 May each repeat, in words of bliss, 
 
 We're all — all here ! 
 
 TO MY CIGAR. 
 
 Yes, social friend, I love thee well, 
 
 In learned doctors' spite; 
 Thy clouds all other clouds dispel. 
 
 And lap me in delight. 
 
 By thee, they cry, with phizzes long, 
 My years are sooner passed ; 
 
 Well, take my answer, right or wrong. 
 They're sweeter while they last. 
 
 And oft, mild friend, to me thou art, 
 
 A monitor, though still; 
 Thou speak' st a lesson to my heart 
 
 Beyond the preacher's skill. 
 
 Thou'rt like the man of w^orth, who 
 gives 
 
 To goodness every day, 
 The odor of whose virtue lives 
 
 When he has passed away. 
 
 When, in the lonely evening hoiu", 
 
 Attended but by thee, 
 O'er history's varied page I pore, 
 
 Man's fate in thine I see. 
 
534 
 
 SP HAGUE. 
 
 Oft as thy snowy column grows, 
 Then hreaks and fahs away, 
 
 I trace how mighty realms thus rose, 
 Thus tumbled to decay. 
 
 Awhile like thee the hero burns, 
 And smokes and fumes around. 
 
 And then, like thee, to ashes turns. 
 And mingles with the ground. 
 
 Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled. 
 And time's the wasting breath. 
 
 That late or early, we behold. 
 Gives all to dusty death. 
 
 From beggar's frieze to monarch's 
 robe, 
 One common doom is passed ; 
 Sweet Nature's works, the swelling 
 globe. 
 Must all burn out at last. 
 
 And what is he who smokes thee 
 now ? — 
 
 A little moving heap. 
 That soon like thee to fate must bow. 
 
 With thee in dust must sleep. 
 
 But though thy ashes downward go. 
 Thy essence rolls on high; 
 
 Thus, when my body must lie low. 
 My soul shall cleave the sky. 
 
 FROM THE -'ODE ON SHAKESPEARE:' 
 
 Who now shall grace the glow- 
 ing throne. 
 Where, all unrivalled, all alone. 
 Bold Shakespeare sat, and looked 
 
 creation through. 
 The minstrel monarch of the 
 worlds he drew? 
 
 That throne is cold — that lyre in 
 death unstrung 
 
 On M'hose prouil note delighted Won- 
 der hung. 
 
 Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he 
 sweeps. 
 
 One spot shall spare — the grave where 
 Shakespeare sleeps. 
 
 Rulers and ruled in common gloom 
 may lie. 
 
 But Nature's laureate bards shall 
 never die. 
 
 Art's chiselled boast and Glory's tro- 
 
 phied shore 
 Must live in numbers, or can live no 
 
 more. 
 While sculptured Jove some nameless 
 
 waste may claim, [fame; 
 
 Still rolls the Olympic car in Pindar's 
 Troy's doubtful walls in ashes passed 
 
 away. 
 Yet frown on Greece in Homer's 
 
 deathless lay; 
 Rome, slowly sinking in her crum- 
 bling fanes. 
 Stands all immortal in her Maro's 
 
 strains ; 
 So, too, yon giant empress of the isles, 
 On whose broad sway the sun forever 
 
 smiles. 
 To Time's unsparing I'age one day 
 
 must bend, 
 And all her triumphs in her Shake- 
 speare end ! 
 
 O thou ! to whose creative power 
 We dedicate the festal hour. 
 While Grace and Goodness round 
 
 the altar stand, 
 Learning's anointed train, and Beau- 
 ty's rose-lipped band — 
 Realms yet unborn, in accents now 
 
 unknown, 
 Thy song shall learn, and bless it for 
 
 their own. [roves. 
 
 Deep in the West as Independence 
 His banners planting round the land 
 
 he loves. 
 Where Nature sleeps in Eden's in- 
 fant grace, 
 In Time's full hour shall spring a 
 
 glorious race. 
 Thy name, thy verse, thy language, 
 
 shall they bear. 
 And deck for thee the vaulted temple 
 
 there. 
 Our Roman-hearted fathers broke 
 Thy parent empire's galling yoke ; 
 But thou, harmonious master of the 
 
 mind. 
 Around their sons a gentler chain 
 
 Shalt bind; 
 Once more in thee shall Albion's 
 
 sceptre wave. 
 And what her monarch lost, her 
 
 iuonarch-bard shall save. 
 
STEDMAN. 
 
 535 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 
 
 THE TEST. 
 
 Seven women loved bim. When 
 the wrinkled pall 
 Enwrapt him from their unfulfilled 
 desire 
 
 (Death, pale, triumphant rival, con- 
 quering all,) 
 
 They came, for that last look, around 
 
 his pyre. 
 One strewed white roses, on Miiose 
 
 leaves were hung 
 Her tears, like dew; and in discreet 
 
 attire 
 
 Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next 
 
 among 
 The group, a fair-haired virgin 
 
 moved serenely. 
 Whose saintly heart no vain repin- 
 
 ings wrung, 
 
 Keached the calm dust, and there, 
 composed and queenly. 
 Gazed, but the missal trembled in 
 her hand : 
 
 *' That's with the past," she said, 
 "nor may I meanly 
 
 Give way to tears!" and passed into 
 the land. 
 The third hung feebly on the por- 
 tals moaning, 
 
 With whitened lips, and feet that 
 stood in sand, 
 
 So weak they seemed, — and all her 
 
 passion owning. 
 The fourth, a ripe, luxurious 
 
 maiden, came, 
 Half for such homage to the dead 
 
 atoning 
 
 By smiles on one who fanned a later 
 
 flame 
 In her slight soul, her fickle steps 
 
 attended. 
 The fifth and sixth were sisters; at 
 
 the same 
 
 Wild moment both above the image 
 
 bended, 
 And with immortal hatred each on 
 
 each. 
 Glared, and therewith her exultation 
 
 blended. 
 
 To know the dead had 'scaped the 
 
 other's reach! 
 Meanwhile, through all the words 
 
 of anguish spoken, 
 One lowly form had given no sound 
 
 of speech, 
 
 Through all the signs of woe, no sign 
 
 nor token : 
 But when they came to bear him 
 
 to his rest. 
 They found her beauty paled, — her 
 
 heart was broken : 
 
 And in the Silent Land his shade 
 
 contest 
 That she, of all the seven, loved him 
 
 best. 
 
 LAURA, MY nAULING. 
 
 Laura, my darling, the roses have 
 
 bhished 
 At the kiss of the dew, and our 
 
 chamber is hushed ; 
 Our murmuring babe to your bosom 
 
 has clung. 
 And hears in his slumber the song 
 
 that you sung; 
 I watch you asleep with your amis 
 
 round him thrown, 
 Your links of dark tresses wound in 
 
 with his own, 
 And the wife is as dear as the gentle 
 
 young bride 
 Of the hour when you first, darling, 
 
 came to my side. 
 
 Laura, my darling, our sail down the 
 
 stream 
 Of Youth's summers and winters 
 
 has been like a dream; 
 
536 
 
 STEDMAN. 
 
 Years have btit rounded your wom- 
 anly grace. 
 
 And added their spell to the light of 
 your face ; 
 
 Your soul is the same as though jiart 
 were not given 
 
 To the two, like yourself, sent to bless 
 me from heaven, — 
 
 Dear lives, springing forth from the 
 life of my life, 
 
 To make you more near, darling, 
 mother, and wife ! 
 
 Laiu-a, my darling, there's hazel-eyed 
 
 Fred, 
 Asleep in his own tiny cot by the bed, 
 And little King Arthur, whose curls 
 
 have the art 
 Of winding their tendrils so close 
 
 round my heart; 
 Yet fairer tlian either, and dearer 
 
 than both. 
 Is the true one who gave me in girl- 
 hood her troth : 
 For we, when we mated for evil and 
 
 good, — 
 What were we, darling, btit babes in 
 
 the wood ? 
 
 Laura, my darling, the years which 
 
 have flown 
 Brought few of the prizes I pledged 
 
 to my own. 
 I said that no sorrow should roughen 
 
 her way. 
 Her life should be cloudless, a long 
 
 summer's day. 
 Shadow and stmshine, thistles and 
 
 flowers, 
 Which of the two, darling, most have 
 
 been ours ? 
 Yet to-night, by the smile on your 
 
 lips, I can see 
 You are dreaming of me, darling, 
 
 dreaming of me. 
 
 Laura, my darling, the stars that we 
 knew 
 
 In our youth, are still shining as ten- 
 der and true; 
 
 The midnight is sounding its slum- 
 berous bell. 
 
 And I come to the one who has loved 
 me so well, 
 
 Wake, darling, wake, for my vigil is 
 
 done : 
 What shall dissever our lives which 
 
 are one ? 
 Say, while the rose listens under her 
 
 breath, 
 '• Xaught until death, darling, naught 
 
 imtil death!" 
 
 THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. 
 
 Could we but know 
 
 The laud that ends our dark, un- 
 certain travel. 
 Where lie those happier hills and 
 meadows low, — 
 Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost 
 cavil. 
 Aught of that country could we 
 siu'ely know. 
 
 Who would not go ? 
 
 Might we but hear 
 The hovering angels' high imagined 
 chorus, 
 Or catch, betimes, with wakeful 
 eyes and clear. 
 One radiant vista of the realm before 
 us, — 
 With one rapt moment given to see 
 and hear. 
 
 Ah, who would fear? 
 
 Were we quite sure 
 To find the peerless friend who left 
 us lonely, 
 Or there, by some celestial stream 
 as pure. 
 To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit 
 only — 
 This weary mortal coil, were we 
 quite sure, 
 
 Who would endure '? 
 
 THE TRYST. 
 
 Sleeping, I dreamed that thou wast 
 
 mine, 
 In some ambrosial lover's shrine. 
 My lips against thy lips were pressed. 
 And all our passion was confessed ; 
 So near and dear my darling seemed, 
 I knew not that I only dreamed. 
 
STEDMAN. 
 
 Waking this mid and moonlit night, 
 I clasp thee close by lover's right. 
 Thou fearest not my -warm embrace. 
 And yet, so like the dream thy face 
 And kisses. I but half i^artake 
 The joy, and know not if I wake. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Crouch no more by the ivied walls, 
 AVeep no longer over her grave. 
 Strew no flowers when evening falls ; 
 Idly you lost what angels gave ! 
 
 .Sunbeams cover that silent mound 
 With a warmer hue than your roses 
 
 red; 
 To-morrow's rain will bedew the 
 
 ground 
 With aT purer stream than the tears 
 
 you shed. 
 
 But neither the sweets of the scat- 
 tered flowers, 
 
 Nor the morning sunlight's soft com- 
 mand, 
 
 Nor all the songs of the summer 
 showers, 
 
 Can charm her back from tliat dis- 
 tant land. 
 
 Tenderest vows are ever too late ! 
 She, who has gone, can only know 
 The cruel sorrow that was her fate, 
 And the words that were a mortal 
 woe. 
 
 Earth to earth, and a vain despair; 
 For the gentle spirit has flown away. 
 And you can never her wrongs repair. 
 Till ye meet again at the Judgment 
 Day. 
 
 THE DOORSTEP. 
 
 The conference-meeting through at 
 last. 
 We boys around the vestry waited 
 To see the girls come tripping past 
 Like snow-birds willing to be 
 mated. 
 
 Not braver he that leaps the wall 
 By level musket-flashes litten. 
 
 Than I, who stepped before them all 
 Who longed to see me get the 
 mitten. 
 
 But no, she blushed and took my 
 arm ! 
 We let the old folks have the high- 
 way. 
 And started toward the Maple Farm 
 Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 
 
 I can't remember what we said, 
 'Twas nothing worth a song or 
 story ; 
 Yet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seemed all transformed apd in a 
 glory. 
 
 The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
 The moon was full, the fields were 
 gleaming : 
 By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, 
 Her face witli youth and health 
 were beaming. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff, — 
 O sculptor, if you could but mould 
 . it! — 
 
 So liglitly touched my iacket-cuff, 
 To" keep it warm I liad to hold it. 
 
 To have her with me there alone, — 
 'Twas love and fear and triumph 
 blended. 
 At last we reached the foot-worn 
 ■ stone 
 Where thatdelicious journey ended. 
 
 The old folks, too, were almost home; 
 Her dimpled hand the latches fin- 
 gered. 
 We heard the voices nearer come. 
 Yet on the doorstep still we lin- 
 gered. 
 
 She shook her ringlets from her head. 
 And with a "Thank you, Ned," 
 dissembled. 
 But yet I knew she imderstood 
 With what a daring wish I trem- 
 bled. 
 
538 
 
 STEDMAN. 
 
 A cloud passed kindly overhead, 
 The moon was slyly peeping 
 through it, 
 Yet hid its face, as if it said, 
 
 "Come, now or never! do it! do 
 it!'' 
 
 My lips till tlien had only known 
 The kiss of mother and of sister, 
 
 But somehow, full upon her own 
 Sweet, rosy, darling mouth, — I 
 kissed her! 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 
 
 O listless Avoman, weary lover! 
 To feel once more that fresh, wild 
 thrill 
 I'd give — but who can live youth 
 over ? 
 
 THE DISCO VEUER. 
 
 I HAVE a little kinsman 
 
 Whose earthly summers are but 
 
 three, 
 And yet a voyager is he 
 Greater than Drake or Frobisher, 
 Than all their peers together ! 
 He is a brave discoverer. 
 And, far beyond the tether 
 Of them who seek the frozen Pole, 
 Has sailed where the noiseless surges 
 
 roll. 
 Ay, he has travelled whither 
 A winged pilot steered his bark 
 Through the portals of the dark, 
 Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, 
 Across the unknown sea. 
 
 Suddenly, in his fair young hour. 
 Came one who bore a flower, 
 And laid it in his dimpled hand 
 
 With this command: 
 " Henceforth thou art a rover! 
 Thou must make a voyage far. 
 Sail beneath the evening star. 
 And a wondrous land discover." 
 — With his sweet smile innocent 
 
 Our little kinsman went. 
 
 Since that time no word 
 
 From the absent has been heard. 
 
 Who can tell 
 How he fares, or answer well 
 
 W^hat the little one has found 
 Since he left us, outward bound; 
 Would that he might return! 
 Then should we learn 
 From the pricking of his chart 
 How the skyey roadways jjart. 
 Hush! does not the baby this way 
 bring. 
 To lay beside this severed curl. 
 
 Some starry offering 
 Of chrysolite or pearl ? 
 
 Ah, no! not so! 
 We may follow on his track, 
 But he comes not back. 
 And yet I dare aver 
 He is a brave discoverer 
 Of climes his elders do not know, 
 He has more learning than appears 
 On the scroll of twice three thou- 
 sand years. 
 More tlian in the groves is taught, 
 Or from furthest Indies brought; 
 He knows, perchance, how spirits 
 
 fare, — 
 What shapes the angels wear, 
 AVliat is their guise and speech 
 In those lands beyond om* reach — 
 And his eyes behold 
 Things that shall never, never be to 
 mortal hearers told. 
 
 SEEKING THE MAYELOIVER. 
 
 The sweetest sound our whole year 
 round — 
 
 'Tis the first robin of the spring! 
 The song of the full orchard choir 
 
 Is not so fine a thing. 
 
 Glad sights are common: Nature 
 draws [year. 
 
 Her random pictures through the 
 But oft her music bids us long 
 
 Remember those most dear. 
 
 To me, when in the sudden spring 
 I hear the earliest robin's lay. 
 
 With the first trill there comes again 
 One picture of the May. 
 
 The veil is parted wide, and lo, 
 A moment, though jny eyelids 
 close, 
 
S TED MAN. 
 
 539 
 
 Once more I see that wooded hill 
 Where the arbutus grows. 
 
 I see the village dryad kneel, 
 Trailing her slender fingers through 
 
 The knotted tendrils, as she lifts 
 Their pink, pale llowers to view. 
 
 Once more I dare to stoop beside 
 The dove-eyed beauty of my choice, 
 
 And long to touch her careless hair, 
 And think how dear her voice. 
 
 My eager, wandering hands assist 
 With fragrant blooms her lap to fill. 
 
 And half by chance they meet her 
 own. 
 Half by our young hearts' will. 
 
 Till, at the last, those blossoms won, — 
 Like her, so pure, so sweet, so 
 shy,— 
 
 Upon the gray and lichened rocks 
 Close at her feet I lie. 
 
 Fresh blows the breeze through hem- 
 lock-trees, 
 The fields are edged with green 
 below; [love 
 
 And naught but youth and hope and 
 We know or care to know ! 
 
 Hark! from the moss-clung apple- 
 bough, [broke 
 
 Beyond the tumbled wall, there 
 That gurgling music of the May, — 
 
 'Twas the first robin spoke! 
 
 I heard it, ay, and heard it not, — 
 For little then my glad heart wist 
 
 What toil and time should come to 
 pass. 
 And what delight be missed ; 
 
 Nor thought thereafter, year by year. 
 Hearing that fresh yet olden song. 
 
 To yearn for luiretuming joys 
 That with its joy l)elong. 
 
 ALL IX A LIFETIME. 
 
 Tiiou Shalt have sun and shower 
 
 from heaven above, 
 Tliou shalt have flower and thorn 
 
 from earth below, 
 
 Thine shall be foe to hate and friend 
 to love, 
 Pleasures that others gain, the ills 
 they know, — 
 
 And all in a lifetime. 
 
 Hast thou a golden day. a starlit 
 night. 
 Mirth, and music, and love without 
 alloy ? 
 Leave no drop undrunken of thy 
 delight : 
 Sorrow and shadow follow on thy 
 joy. 
 
 'Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 What if the battle end and thou hast 
 lost? 
 Others have lost the battles thou 
 hast Avon : 
 Haste thee, bind thy wounds, nor 
 count the cost; 
 Over the field will rise to-mor- 
 row's sun. 
 
 "Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 Laugh at the braggart sneer, the 
 open scorn, — 
 'Ware of the secret stab, the slan- 
 derous lie : 
 For seventy years of turmoil tliou 
 wast born. 
 Bitter and sweet are thine till these 
 go by. 
 
 'Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 Reckon thy voyage well, and spread 
 the sail, — 
 Wind and calm and current shall 
 wari^ thy way ; 
 Compass shall set thee false, and 
 chart shall fail ; 
 Ever the waves shall use thee for 
 their play. 
 
 'Tis all in a lifetime. 
 
 Thousands of years agone were 
 chance and change. 
 Thousands of ages hence the same 
 shall be; 
 Xaught of thy joy and grief is new or 
 strange : 
 Gather apace the good that falls 
 to thee ! 
 
 'Tis all in a lifetime! 
 
Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH. 
 
 There are gains for all our losses, 
 There are balms for all our pain : 
 But when youth, the dream, departs, 
 It takes something from our hearts. 
 And it never comes again. 
 
 We are stronger, and are better. 
 
 Under manhood's sterner reign: 
 Still we feel that something sweet 
 Followed youth, with flying feet, 
 And will never come again. 
 
 Something beautiful is vanished, 
 
 And we sigh for it in vain: 
 We behold it everywhere, 
 On the earth, and in the air, 
 But it never comes again. 
 
 ^.V OLD SONG REVERSED. 
 
 " There are gains for all our losses." 
 
 So I said when I was young. 
 If I sang that song again, 
 'Twould not be Avith that refrain. 
 Which but suits an idle tongue. 
 
 Youth has gone, and hope gone with 
 it. 
 
 Gone the strong desire for fame. 
 Laurels are not for the old. 
 Take them, lads. Give Senex gold. 
 
 What's an everlasting name ? 
 
 When my life was in its summer 
 
 One fair woman liked my looks: 
 Now that Time has driven his plough 
 In deep farrows on my brow, 
 I'm no more in her good books. 
 
 " There are gains for all our losses?" 
 
 Gi'ave beside the wintry sea. 
 Where my child is, and my heart. 
 For they would not live apart, 
 What has been your gain to me ? 
 
 No, the words I sang were idle, 
 
 And will ever so i-emain : 
 Death, and age, and vanished youth, 
 All declare this bitter truth, 
 
 " There's a loss for every gain!" 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 When first the bride and bridegroom 
 wed. 
 They love their single selves the 
 best; 
 A sword is in the marriage-bed. 
 Their separate slumbers are not 
 rest ; 
 They quarrel, and make up again. 
 They give and suffer worlds of pain. 
 Both right and wrong. 
 They struggle long. [old, 
 
 Till some good day, when they are 
 Some dark day, when the bells are 
 
 tolled. 
 
 Death having taken their best of life, 
 
 They lose themselves, and find each 
 
 other; [wife, 
 
 They know that they are husband. 
 
 For, weeping, they are father, 
 
 mother ! 
 
 THE TWO BRIDES. 
 
 I SAW two maids at the kirk. 
 And botli were fair and sweet: 
 
 One in her wedding-robe. 
 And one in her winding-sheet. 
 
 The choristers sang the hymn. 
 The sacred rites were read. 
 
 And one for life to life. 
 And one to death was wed. 
 
 They were borne to their bridal-beds, 
 
 In loveliness and bloom ; 
 One in a merry castle. 
 
 And one in a solemn tomb. 
 
 One on the morrow woke 
 In a workl of sin and pain ; 
 
 But the otlier was happier far, 
 And never awoke aerain. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 This man Avhose homely face you 
 
 look upon. 
 Was one of nature's masterful, great 
 
 men; 
 
STODDARD. 
 
 Born with strong arms, that unf ought 
 
 battles won; 
 Direct of speech, and cunning witli 
 
 the pen. 
 Chosen for large designs, he had the 
 
 art 
 Of winning with his humor, and he 
 
 went 
 Straight to his mark, which was the 
 
 human heart ; 
 Wise, too, for what he could not 
 
 break he bent. 
 Upon his back a more than Atlas- 
 load, 
 The burden of the Commonwealth, 
 
 was laid; 
 He stooped, and rose up to it, though 
 
 the road 
 Shot suddenly downwards, not a 
 
 whit dismayed. 
 Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! 
 
 AH now give jilace 
 To this dear benefactor of the 
 
 race. 
 
 HOWAHE SONGS BEGOT AND BRED. 
 
 How are songs begot and bred ? 
 How do golden measures flow ? 
 From the heart, or from the head, 
 Happy poet, let me know. 
 
 Tell me first how folded flowers 
 Bud and bloom in vernal bowers ; 
 How the south wind shapes its tune. 
 The harper, he, of June. 
 
 None may answer, none may know, 
 Winds and flowers come and go, 
 And the selfsame ca)ions bind 
 Nature and the poet's mind. 
 
 RATTLE THE WINDO]V. 
 
 Rattle the window, winds. 
 
 Rain, drip on the panes; 
 There are tears and sighs in our 
 hearts and eyes. 
 
 And a weary weight on our brains. 
 
 The gray sea heaves and heaves, 
 On the dreary flats of sand; 
 
 And the blasted limb of the church- 
 yard yew,— 
 It shakes like a ghostly hand. 
 
 The dead are engulfed beneath it, 
 Sunk in the grassy waves : 
 
 But we have more dead in our hearts 
 to-day 
 Than earth in all her graves ! 
 
 SONGS UNSUNG. 
 
 Let no poet, great or small. 
 Say tliat he will sing a song; 
 
 For song coraeth, if at all. 
 Not because we woo it long, 
 
 But because it suits its will. 
 
 Tired at last of being still. 
 
 Every song that has been sung 
 Was before it took a voice. 
 
 Waiting since the world was young 
 For the poet of its choice. 
 
 Oh, if any waiting be. 
 
 May they come to-day to me ! 
 
 I am ready to repeat 
 
 Whatsoever they impart ; 
 Sorrows sent by them are sweet, 
 
 They know how to heal the heart : 
 Ay, and in the lightest strain 
 Something serious doth remain. 
 
 What are my white hairs, forsooth. 
 And the wrinkles on my brow ? 
 
 I have still the soul of youth, 
 Try me, merry Pluses, now. 
 
 I can still with numbers fleet 
 
 Fill the world with dancing feet. 
 
 No, I am no longer young. 
 Old am I this many a year; 
 
 But my songs will yet be sung. 
 Though I shall not live to hear. 
 
 O my son that is to be. 
 
 Sing my songs, and think of me! 
 
 WHEN THE DRUM OF SICKNESS 
 BEATS. 
 
 When the drum of sickness beats 
 The change o' the watch, and we 
 are old. 
 
 Farewell, youth, and all its sweets. 
 Fires gone out that leave us cold! 
 
542 
 
 STODDARD. 
 
 Hairs are white that once were black, 
 Each of fate the message saith ; 
 
 And the bending of the back 
 Salutation is to death. 
 
 PAIN AND PLEASURE. 
 
 Pain and pleasure both decay, 
 Wealth and poverty depart; 
 
 Wisdom makes a longer stay. 
 
 Therefore, be thou wise, my heart. 
 
 Land remains not, nor do they 
 Who the lands to-day control. 
 
 Kings and princes pass away, 
 
 Therefore, be thou fixed, my soul. 
 
 If by hatred, love, or pride 
 
 Thou art shaken, thou art wrong; 
 
 Only one thing will abide. 
 Only goodness can be strong. 
 
 OUT OF THE DEEPS OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Out of the deeps of heaven 
 A bird has flown to my door, 
 
 As twice in the ripening summers 
 Its mates have flown before. 
 
 Why it has flown to my dwelling 
 
 Nor it nor I may know; 
 And only the silent angels 
 
 Can tell when it shall go. 
 
 That it will not straightway vanish. 
 
 But fold its wings with me. 
 And sing in the greenest branches 
 
 Till the axe is laid to the tree, 
 
 Is the prayer of my love and terror ; 
 
 For my soul is sore distrest. 
 Lest I wake some dreadful morning. 
 
 And find but its empty nest ! 
 
 WE SAT BY THE CHEERLESS 
 FIRESIDE. 
 
 We sat by the cheerless fireside, 
 Mother, and you, and I ; 
 
 All thinking of oiu- darling, 
 And sad enough to die. 
 
 He lay in his little coffin. 
 In the room adjoining ours, 
 
 A Christmas wreath on his bosom, 
 His brow in a band of flowers. 
 
 " We bury the boy to-morrow," 
 
 I said, or seemed to say ; 
 " Woidd I could keep it from coming 
 
 By lengthening out to-day! 
 
 "Why can't I sit by the fireside. 
 
 As I am sitting now. 
 And feel my gray hairs thinning. 
 
 And the wrinkles on my brow ? 
 
 " God keep him there in his coffin 
 Till the years have rolled away! 
 
 If he must be buiied to-morrow, 
 Oh, let me die to-dav!" 
 
 THE HEALTH. 
 
 You may drink to your leman in 
 gold. 
 
 In a great golden goblet of wine; 
 She's as ripe as the wine, and as bold 
 As the glare of the gold : 
 
 But this little lady of mine, 
 
 1 will not profane her in wine. 
 I go where the garden so still is, 
 
 (The moon raining through,) 
 To pluck the white bowls of 
 lilies. 
 
 And drink her in dew! 
 
 the 
 
 SILENT SONGS. 
 
 If I could ever sing the songs 
 Within me day and night. 
 
 The only fit accompaniment 
 Would be a lute of light. 
 
 A thousand dreamy melodies, 
 
 Begot with pleasant pain, 
 Like "incantations float around 
 
 The chambers of my brain. 
 
 But when I strive to utter one. 
 
 It mocks my feeble art. 
 And leaves me silent, with the thorns 
 
 Of music in my heart ! 
 
William Wetmore Story. 
 
 THE VIOLET. 
 
 O FAINT, delicious, spring-time vio- 
 let, 
 Thine odor, like a key, 
 Turns noiselessly in memory's wards 
 to let 
 A thought of sorrow free. 
 
 The breath of distant fields upon my 
 brow 
 Blows through that open door 
 The sound of wind-borne bells, more 
 sweet and low. 
 And sadder than of yore. 
 
 It comes afar, from that beloved 
 place. 
 And that beloveil hoiu". 
 When life hung ripening in love's 
 golden grace. 
 Like grapes above a bower. 
 
 A spring goes singing through its 
 reedy grass; 
 The lark sings o'er my head, 
 Drowned in the sky. — Oh, pass, ye 
 
 visions, pass 
 
 I wouUl that I were dead ! 
 
 Why hast thou opened that forbidden 
 door 
 From which I ever flee ? 
 O vanished Joy ! O Love, that art no 
 more. 
 Let my vexed spirit be ! 
 
 O violet ! thy odor through my brain 
 Hath searched, and stung to grief 
 
 This sunny day, as if a curse did 
 stain 
 Thv velvet leaf. 
 
 THE UKEXPRESSKD. 
 
 Strive not to say the whole! the 
 
 poet in his art, 
 Must intimate the Avhole, and say tlie 
 
 smallest part. 
 
 The young moon's silver arc, her per- 
 fect circle tells. 
 
 The limitless, within Art's bounded 
 outline dwells. 
 
 Of every noble work, the silent part 
 
 is best; 
 Of all expression, that which cannot 
 
 be expressed. 
 
 Each act contains the life, each work 
 
 of art, the world. 
 And all the planet-laws are in each 
 
 dewdrop pearled. 
 
 WETMOUE COTTAGE, N AH ANT. 
 
 The hours on the old piazza 
 
 That overhangs the sea. 
 With a tender and pensive music 
 
 At times steal over me ; 
 And again, o'er the balcony lean- 
 ing, 
 
 We list to the surf on the beach, 
 That fills with its solemn warning 
 
 The intervals of speech. 
 
 We three sit at night in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 As we sat in the summer gone, 
 And we talk of art and nature 
 
 And sing as we sit alone ; 
 We sing the old songs of Sorrento, 
 
 Where oranges hang o' er the sea. 
 And our hearts are tender with 
 dreaming 
 
 Of days that no more shall be. 
 
 How gaily the hours went with us 
 In those old days that are gone ! 
 
 Ah ! would we Avere all together. 
 Where now I am standing alone. 
 
 Could life be again so perfect "? 
 Ah, never! these years so drain 
 
 The heart of its freshness of feel- 
 
 But I lont 
 vain. 
 
 though the longing be 
 
544 
 
 8T0WE. 
 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe. 
 
 LIFE'S MYSTERY. 
 
 Life's mystery, — deep, restless as 
 the ocean, — 
 Hath surged and wailed for ages to 
 and tro; 
 
 Earth's generations watch its cease- 
 less motion 
 As in and out its hollow moanings 
 flow ; 
 
 .Shivering and yearning by that mi- 
 known sea, 
 
 Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in 
 thee ! 
 
 Life's sorrows, with inexorable pow- 
 er. 
 Sweep desolation o'er this mortal 
 plain; 
 
 And human loves and hopes fly as 
 the chaff 
 Borne by the whirlwind from the 
 ripened grain : — 
 
 Ah, when before that blast my hopes 
 all flee, 
 
 Let my soul calm itself, O Christ, in 
 thee! 
 
 Between the mysteries of death and 
 
 life 
 Thou standest, loving, guiding, — 
 
 not explaining; 
 We aslv, and thou art silent, — yet we 
 
 gaze. 
 And our charmed hearts forget 
 
 their drear complaining! 
 No crushing fate, — no stony destiny I 
 Thou Lamb that hast been slain, we 
 
 rest in thee! 
 
 The many waves of thought, the 
 miglity tides, 
 The ground-swell that rolls up from 
 other lands. 
 
 From far-off worlds, from dim eter- 
 nal shores 
 Whose echo dashes on life's wave- 
 worn strands, — 
 
 This vague, dark tumult of the inner 
 sea 
 
 Grows calm, grows bright, O, risen 
 Lord, in thee! 
 
 Thy pierced hand guides the myste- 
 rious wheels ; 
 Thy thorn-crowned brow now 
 wears the crown of power; 
 
 And when the dark enigma presseth 
 sore 
 Thy patient voice saith, "Watch 
 with me one hour ! ' ' 
 
 As sinks the moaning river in the 
 sea 
 
 In silver peace, — so sinks my soul in 
 Thee! 
 
 THE OTHER WORLD. 
 
 It lies around us like a cloud. — 
 
 A world we do not see ; 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
 
 May bring us there to be. 
 
 Its gentle breezes fan our cheek; 
 
 Amid our worldly cares 
 Its gentle voices whisper love, 
 
 And mingle with our prayers. 
 
 Sweet hearts around us throb and 
 beat, 
 
 Sweet helping hands are stirred, 
 And palpitates the veil between 
 
 With breathings almost heard. 
 
 The silence, — awful, sweet, and 
 calm. 
 
 They have no power to break ; 
 For mortal words are not for them 
 
 To utter or partake. 
 
 So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide. 
 So near to press they seem, — 
 
 They seem to lull us to our rest, 
 And melt into our dream. 
 
 And in the hush of rest they bring, 
 
 'Tis easy now to see 
 How lovely and how sweet a pass 
 
 The hour of death may be. 
 
STREET. 
 
 545 
 
 To close the eye, and close the ear, 
 Wrapped in a trance of bliss. 
 
 And gently dream in loving arms. 
 To swoon to that, — from tliis. 
 
 Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, 
 Scarce asking where we are, 
 
 To feel all evil sink away. 
 All sorrow and all care. 
 
 Sweet souls around us! watch us still, 
 
 Press nearer to our side, 
 Into our thoughts, into our prayers, 
 
 With gentle helpings glide. 
 
 Let death between us be as naught, 
 A dried and vanished stream ; 
 
 Your joy be the reality, 
 Our suffering life, the dream. 
 
 Alfred Billings Street. 
 
 [From Frontenac] 
 QUEBEC AT SUXIHSE. 
 
 The fresh May morning's earliest 
 
 light. 
 From ^A'here the richest hues were 
 
 blended. 
 Lit on Cape Diamond's towering 
 
 height 
 Whose spangled ciystals glittered 
 
 bright, 
 Thence to the castle roof descended. 
 And bathed in radiance pure and 
 
 deep [steep. 
 
 The spires and dwellings of the 
 Still downward crept the strengthen- 
 ing rays ; 
 The lofty crowded roofs below 
 And t'ataraqui caught the glow. 
 Till tiie whole scene was in a blaze. 
 The scattered bastions, — walls of 
 
 stone 
 With bristling lines of cannon 
 
 croMued, 
 Whose nuizzles o'er the landscape 
 
 frowned 
 Blackly through their embrasures 
 
 — shone. 
 Point Levi's woods sent many a 
 
 wreath 
 Of mist, as though hearths smoked 
 
 beneath. 
 Whilst heavy folds of vapor gray 
 Upon St. Charles, still brooding, lay; 
 The basin glowed in splendid dyes 
 Glassing the glories of the skies. 
 And chequered tints of light and 
 
 shade 
 The banks of Orleans' Isle displayed. 
 
 [From Frontcnac] 
 QUEBEC AT SUXSET. 
 
 'TwAS in June's bright and glowing 
 
 prime 
 The loveliest of the summer time. 
 The laurels were one splendid sheet 
 Of crowded blossom everywhere : 
 The locust's clustered pearl was 
 
 sweet, [air 
 
 And the tall whitewood made the 
 Delicious with the fragrance shed 
 From the gold flowers all o"er it 
 
 spread. 
 
 In the rich pomp of dying day 
 
 Quebec, the rock-throned monarch, 
 glowed. 
 Castle and spire and dwelling gray 
 Tlie batteries rude that niched their 
 
 ■way 
 Along the cliff, beneath the play 
 Of the deep yellow light, were gay. 
 And the curved flood, below that lay, 
 
 In flashing glory flowed; 
 Beyond, the sweet and mellow smile 
 Beamed upon Orleans' lovely isle; 
 
 Until the downward view 
 Was closed by mountain-tops that, 
 
 reared 
 Against the burnished sky, ajipeared 
 
 In misty dreamy hue. 
 
 West of Quebec's embankments rose 
 The forests in their wild repose. 
 Between the trunks, the radiance 
 slim 
 Here came with slant and quiver- 
 ing blaze; 
 
Whilst there, in leaf-wreatlied arbors 
 dim, 
 Was gathering gray the twiliglit's 
 haze. 
 Wliere cut tlie bouglis the back- 
 ground glow 
 That striped the west, a glittering 
 belt. 
 The leaves transparent seemed, as 
 though 
 In the rich radiance they would 
 melt. 
 
 Upon a narrow grassy glade, 
 
 Wliere thickets stood in grouping 
 
 shade, 
 The light streaked down in golden 
 
 mist, 
 Kindled the shrubs, the greensward 
 
 kissed. 
 Until the ciover-blossoms white 
 Flashed out lilie spangles large and 
 
 bright. 
 
 This green and sun-streaked glade 
 
 Mas rife 
 With sights and sounds of forest life. 
 A robin in a bush was singing, 
 
 A flicker rattled on a tree ; 
 In liquid life-like tones round ringing 
 
 A tlu-asher piped its melody ; 
 Crouching and leaping with pointed 
 ear 
 From tliicket to thicket a rabl^it 
 sped. 
 And on the short delicate grass a 
 deer 
 Lashing the insects from off him, 
 fetf. 
 
 [From Froiitenac] 
 THE CANADIAN SPUING. 
 
 'TwAS May! the spring with magic 
 
 bloom 
 Leaped up from wint<^}'s frozen 
 
 tomb. 
 Day lit the river's icy mail: 
 
 The bland warm rain at evening 
 
 sank; 
 I"e fragments dashed in midnight's 
 
 gale; 
 
 The moose at morn the rii)ples 
 drank. 
 The yacht, that stood with naked 
 mast 
 In the locked shallows motionless 
 AVhen sunset fell, went curtseying 
 past 
 As breathed the morning's liglit 
 caress. 
 The woodman, in the forest deep. 
 At sunrise heard witli gladdening 
 thrill, 
 Where yester-eve was gloomy sleep. 
 
 The brown rossignol's carol shrill; 
 Where yester-eve the snowbank 
 spread 
 The hemlock's twisted roots be- 
 tween. 
 He saw the coltsfoot's golden head 
 Rising from mosses plump and 
 green ; 
 Whilstall aromid were budding trees. 
 And mellow sweetness tilled the 
 
 breeze, 
 A few days passed along, and brought 
 More changes as by magic wrought. 
 AVith plumes were tipped thebeechen 
 sprays ; 
 The birch, long dangling tassels 
 showed ; 
 The oak still bare, but in a blaze 
 
 Of gorgeous red the maple glowed; 
 With clusters of the purest white 
 Cherry and shadbush charmed the 
 sight 
 Like spots of snow tlie boughs 
 among; 
 And showers of strawberi-y blossoms 
 
 made 
 Rich cai-pets in each field and glade 
 Wliere day its kindliest glances 
 flung. 
 And air, too, hailed spring's joyous 
 sway ; 
 The bluebird warbled clear and 
 sweet ; 
 Then came the wren with carols gay, 
 The customed roof and porcli to 
 greet ; 
 The mockbird showed its varied skill ; 
 At evening moaned tlie whippoor- 
 
 will. 
 Type of the spring fi-om winter's 
 gloom! 
 
The butterfly new being found ; 
 Whilst round the pink may-apple's 
 bloom. 
 Gave myriad drinking bees their 
 sound. 
 Great fleeting clouds the pigeons 
 
 made ; 
 When near her brood the hunter 
 strayed 
 AVlth trailing limp the partridge 
 stirred ; 
 Whilst a quick, feathered spangle 
 
 shot 
 Rapid as thought from spot to sjiot 
 yiiowing the fairv humming-bird. 
 
 [From Frontenac] 
 CAYUGA LAKE. 
 
 SwKET sylvan lake! in jnemory's 
 
 gold 
 Is set the time, when first my eye 
 From thy green shore beheld thee 
 
 hold 
 Thy mirror to the sunset sky ! 
 No ripple brushed its delicate air, 
 Rich silken tints alone were there; 
 The far opposing shore displayed, 
 Mingling its hues, a tender shade; 
 A sail scarce seeming to the sight 
 To move, spread there its pinion 
 
 white. 
 Like some pure spirit stealing on 
 Down from its realm, by beauty won. 
 Oh, who could view the scene nor 
 
 feel 
 Its gentle peace within him steal. 
 Nor in his inmost bosom bless 
 lis pure and radiant loveliness ? 
 ]\Iy heart bent down its willing knee 
 Before the glorious Deity ; 
 Beauty led up my heart to llim. 
 Beauty, though cold, and poor, and 
 
 dim 
 Before His radiance, beauty still 
 Tliat made my bosom deeply thrill ; 
 To higher life my being wrought, 
 And purified my every thought, 
 ('rept like soft music througli my 
 
 mind. 
 Each feeling of my soul refined. 
 And lifted me that lovely even 
 One precious moment up to heaven. 
 
 Then, contrast wild, I saw the cloud 
 
 The next day rear its sable crest. 
 And heard with awe the thunder 
 loud 
 Come crashing o'er thy blackening 
 breast. 
 Down swooped the eagle of the blast. 
 One mass of foam was tossing high. 
 Whilst the red lightnings, fierce and 
 fast. 
 Shot from the wild and scowling 
 sky, 
 And bvu'st in dark and mighty train 
 A tumbling cataract, tlie i-ain. 
 I saw within the driving mist 
 Dim writhing stooping shapes, — 
 the trees 
 That the last eve so softly kissed. 
 
 And birds so filled with melodies. 
 Still swept the wind with keener 
 shriek, 
 The tossing waters higher rolled, 
 Still fiercer flashed the lightning's 
 streak. 
 Still gloomier frowned the tempest's 
 iold. 
 
 Ah, such, ah, such is life, I sighed. 
 
 That lovely yester-eve and this ! 
 Now it reflects the radiant pride 
 Of youth and hope and promised 
 
 bliss. 
 Earth's future track an Eden seems 
 Brighter than e'en our brightest 
 
 dreams. 
 Again, the tempest rushes o'er. 
 The sky's blue smile is seen no more, 
 The placid deep to foam is tossed. 
 All trace of beauty, peace, is lost. 
 Despair is hovering, dark and wild. 
 Ah! what can save earth's stricken 
 
 child •? 
 
 Sweet sylvan lake! beside thee now. 
 Villages point their spires to 
 heaven, 
 
 Hich meadows wave, broad grain- 
 fields bow. 
 The axe resounds, the plough is 
 driven : 
 
 Down verdant points come herds to 
 drink. 
 
 Flocks sti-ew, like spots of snow, thy 
 blink; 
 
548 
 
 STREET. 
 
 The frequent farm-house meets the 
 
 sight, 
 Mid falHng harvests scythes are 
 
 bright. 
 The watch-dog's bark comes faint 
 
 from far, 
 Shakes on tlie ear tlie saw-mill's jar, 
 The steamer like a darting bird 
 
 Parts the rich emerald of thy wave, 
 And the gay song and laugh are 
 
 heard, 
 But all is o'er the Indian's grave. 
 Pause, white man! check thy onward 
 
 stride ! 
 Cease o'er the flood thy prow to 
 
 guide ! 
 Until is given one sigh sincere 
 For those who once were monarchs 
 
 here. 
 And prayer is made beseeching God 
 To spare us his avenging rod 
 For all the wrongs upon the head 
 Of the poor helpless savage shed ; 
 Who, strong when we were weak, did 
 
 not 
 Trample us down upon the spot, 
 But, weak when we were strong, was 
 
 cast 
 Like leaves upon the rushing blast. 
 
 Sweet sylvan lake ! one single gem 
 
 Is in thy liquid diadem. 
 
 No sister has this little isle 
 
 To give its beauty smile for smile; 
 
 With it to hear the blue-bird sing; 
 
 " W^ake, leaves, wake, flowers! here 
 
 comes the spring! " 
 With it to weave for sunmier's 
 
 tread 
 Mosses below and bowers o'erhead; 
 With it to flash to gorgeous skies 
 Tlie opal pomp of autumn skies; 
 And when stern winter's tempests 
 
 blow 
 To shrink beneath his robes of snow. 
 
 Sweet sylvan lake ! that isle of thine 
 Is like one hope through grief to 
 
 shine: 
 Is like one tie our life to cheer; 
 Is like one flower when all is sere; 
 One ray amidst the tempest's might; 
 One star amidst the gloom of night. 
 
 A FOREST WALK. 
 
 A LOVEi>Y sky, a cloudless sun, 
 A wind that breathes of leaves and 
 flowers. 
 O'er hill, through dale, my steps have 
 run 
 To the cool forest's shadowy 
 bowers ; 
 One of the paths all round that wind, 
 Traced by the browsing herds, I 
 choose. 
 And sights and sounds of humaii kind 
 
 In Nature's lone recesses lose: 
 The beech displays its marbled l*ark. 
 The spruce its green tent stretches 
 wide, 
 AVhile scowls the hemlock grim and 
 dark. 
 The maple's scalloped dome beside. 
 All weave on high a verdant roof 
 That keeps the very sun aloof. 
 Making a twilight soft and green* 
 Within the columned, vaulted scene. 
 
 Sweet forest-odors have their birth 
 From the clothed boughs and teem- 
 ing earth ; 
 Where pine-cones dropi^ed, leaves 
 piled and dead 
 Long tufts of grass, and stars of 
 
 fern, 
 With many a wild flower's fairy 
 inn, 
 A thick, elastic carpet spread : 
 Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk, 
 Resolving into soil, is sunk; 
 There, wrenched but lately from its 
 throne 
 By some fierce whirlwind circling 
 past. 
 Its huge roots massed with earth and 
 stone. 
 One of the woodland kings is cast. 
 
 Above, the forest-tips are bi-iglit 
 AVith the broad blaze of sunny light; 
 But now a fitful air-gust parts 
 
 The screening branches, and a glow 
 Of dazzling, startling radiance darts 
 
 Down tlie dark stems, and lireaks 
 below : 
 The mingled shadows off are rolled. 
 The sylvan floor is bathed in gold; 
 
STREET. 
 
 549 
 
 Low sprouts and herbs, before un- 
 seen 
 Display their shades of brown and 
 
 green : 
 Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss, 
 Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss; 
 The robin, brooding in her nest. 
 Chirps as the quick ray strikes her 
 
 breast ; 
 And, as my shadow prints the ground, 
 I see the rabbit upward bound, 
 AVith pointed ears an instant look. 
 Then scamper to the darkest nook, 
 Where, with crouched limb and star- 
 ing eye. 
 He watches while I saunter by. 
 
 A narrow vista, carpeted 
 
 With rich green grass, invites my 
 
 tread : 
 Here showers the light in golden dots, 
 There drops the shade in ebon spots, 
 So blended that the very air 
 Seems net-work as I enter there. 
 The partridge, whose deep-rolling 
 
 dnun 
 Afar has sounded in my ear. 
 Ceasing his beatings as I come, 
 Whirs to the sheltering branches 
 
 near ; 
 The little milk-snake glides away. 
 The brindled marmot dives from day; 
 And now, between the boughs, a 
 
 space 
 Of the blue, laughing sky, I trace: 
 On each side shrinks tlie bowery 
 
 shade ; 
 Before me spreads an emerald glade; 
 The sunshine steeps its grass and 
 
 moss ; 
 That couch my footsteps as I cross; 
 IMerrily hums the tawny bee, 
 Tlie glitteiing humming-bird I see; 
 Floats tlie bright butterfly along, 
 The insect choir is loud in song; 
 A spot of light and life, it seems, — 
 A fairy haunt for Fancy's dreams. 
 
 Here stretched, the pleasant turf I 
 
 press 
 In luxury of idleness ; 
 Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and 
 
 sky 
 Spotted with cloud-shapes charm my 
 
 eye : 
 
 While murmuring grass and waving 
 
 trees — 
 Their leaf-harps sounding to the 
 
 breeze — 
 And water-tones that tinkle near, 
 Blend their sweet music to my ear; 
 And by the changing shades alone, 
 The imssage of tlie hours is known. 
 
 THE BLUE-BIRD'S SOXG. 
 
 Hakk. that sweet carol! With de- 
 light 
 We leave the stifling room; 
 The little bluebird meets our sight, — 
 Spring, glorious spring, has come ! 
 The south-wind's balm is in the 
 air, [where 
 
 The melting snow-wreaths every- 
 
 Are leaping off in showers; 
 And Nature, in her brightening looks, 
 Tells that her flowers, and leaves, 
 and brooks. 
 And birds, will soon be ours. 
 
 [From " The Xook in flu- Forest.'''] 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 The branches arch and shape a pleas- 
 ant bower. 
 
 Breaking white cloud, blue sky, and 
 sunshine bright 
 
 Into pure ivory and sapphire spots. 
 
 And flecks of gold ; a soft, cool eme- 
 rald tint 
 
 Colors the air, as though the delicate 
 leaves 
 
 Emitted self-born light. What splen- 
 did walls. 
 
 And what a gorgeous roof, carved by 
 the hand 
 
 Of glorious Nature I Here the spruce 
 thrusts in 
 
 Its bristling plume, tipped with its 
 pale-green points ; 
 
 The hemlock shows its borders 
 freshly fringed; 
 
 The smoothly-scalloped beech-leaf 
 and the birch. 
 
 Cut into ragged edges, interlace: 
 
 While here and there, through clefts, 
 the laurel hangs 
 
 Its gorgeous chalices half-brimmed 
 with dew. 
 
550 
 
 SUCKLING. 
 
 As though to hoard it for the haunt- 
 ing elves, 
 
 The moonlight calls to this, their 
 festal hall. [the earth 
 
 A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes 
 
 Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The 
 fern displays 
 
 Its fluted wreath, beaded beneath 
 
 with drops 
 Of richest brown; the wild-rose 
 
 spreads its breast 
 Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging 
 
 tir 
 lias dropped its dark, long cone. 
 
 Sir John Suckling. 
 
 CONSTANCY. 
 
 Out upon it ! I have loved 
 Three whole days together; 
 
 And am like to love thee more, 
 If it prove fair weather. 
 
 Time shall moult away his wings. 
 
 Ere he shall discover 
 In the whole wide world again. 
 
 Such a constant lover. 
 
 But the spite on"t is, no praise 
 
 Is due at all to me ; 
 Love with me had made no stays. 
 
 Except it had been she. 
 
 Had it any been but she 
 
 And that very face. 
 There had been at least, ere this, 
 
 A dozen in her place ! 
 
 WHY SO PALE AND WAN. FOND 
 LOVE II' 
 
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 
 
 Prithee, why so pale ? 
 Will, when looking well can't move 
 her. 
 
 Looking ill prevail ? 
 
 Prithee, why so pale ? 
 
 Why so dull and nuite, young sinner? 
 
 Prithee, why so mute ? 
 Will, when speaking well can't win 
 her. 
 
 Saying nothing do't ? 
 
 Prithee, why so mute ! 
 
 Quit, quit for shame, this will not 
 move. 
 
 This cannot take her; 
 If of herself she will not love, 
 
 Nothing can make her: 
 
 The devil take her. 
 
 / PRITHEE SEND ME BACK MY 
 HEART. 
 
 I PRITHEE send me back my heart. 
 Since I can not have thine. 
 
 For if from yours you will not part. 
 Why then should'st thou have 
 mine ? 
 
 Yet now I think on't, let it lie. 
 
 To find it were in vain ; 
 For thou' St a thief in either eye 
 
 Would steal it back again. 
 
 Why should two hearts in one bi-east 
 lie. 
 
 And yet not lodge together ? 
 O love! where is t:hy sympathy, 
 
 If thus our breasts thou sever ? 
 
 But love is such a mystery, 
 
 I cannot find it out; 
 For when I think I'm best resolved, 
 
 I then am in most doubt. 
 
 Then farewell, care, and farewell, 
 woe, 
 
 I will no longer pine; 
 For I'll believe I have her heart 
 
 As nuich as she has mine. 
 
SURREY. 
 
 551 
 
 Earl of Surrey (Henry Howard). 
 
 THE MEANS 
 
 ro ATTAIX HAPPY 
 LIFE. 
 
 Martial, the things that do attain 
 Tlie hapi:)y life, be these, I tind ; 
 
 The riches left, not got with jjain ; 
 The fruitfnl ground, the quiet 
 mind : 
 
 The equal friend, no grudge, no 
 strife; 
 
 No charge of rule, nor governance ; 
 Without disease, the healthful life; 
 
 The household of continuance : 
 
 The mean diet, no delicate fare; 
 True wisdom joined with simple- 
 ness; 
 The night discharged of all care. 
 Where Avine the wit may not op- 
 press : 
 
 The faithful wife, without debate; 
 Such sleeps as may beguile the 
 night. 
 Content thee with thine own estate; 
 Ne wish for death, ne fear his 
 misrht. 
 
 FROir "XO AGE IS COXTEyiV 
 
 I saw the little boy 
 
 In thought — how oft that he 
 Did wish of God to "scape the rod, 
 
 A tall yoiuig man to be : 
 The young man eke. that feels 
 
 His bones with pains opprest, 
 How he would be a rich old man, 
 
 To live and lie at rest. 
 
 The rich old man that sees 
 
 His end draw on so sore. 
 How he Avould be a boy again, 
 
 To live so nuich the more; 
 Whereat full oft I smiled. 
 
 To see how all these three, 
 From boy to man, from man to boy, 
 
 Would chop and change degree. 
 
 IN PPAISE OF HIS LADY-LOVE 
 COMPARED WITH ALL OTIIEIIS. 
 
 Give place, ye lovers, here before 
 That spent your boasts and brags 
 in vain; 
 My lady's beauty passeth more 
 
 The best of yours, I dare well 
 say'n. 
 Than doth the sun the candle 
 
 light. 
 Or brightest day the darkest night. 
 
 And thereto hath a troth as just 
 As had Tenelope the fair: 
 
 For what she saith ye may it trust, 
 As it l)y writing sealed were: 
 
 And virtues hath she many mo' 
 
 Than I with pen have" skill to 
 show. 
 
 I could rehearse, if that I would, 
 The whole effect of Nature's plaint, 
 
 When she had lost the perfit mould. 
 The like to whom she could not 
 paint : 
 
 With wringing hands, how she did 
 
 ci-y, 
 
 And what she said. I know it. I. 
 
 I know she SAvore with raging mind. 
 
 Her kingdom only set apart. 
 There was no loss by law of kind 
 That could have gone so near her 
 heart ; 
 And this was chiefly ail her pain: 
 ■'yiie could not make the like 
 a lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened. 
 liOve was dead. 
 
 Or they loved their life through, and then went whither ? 
 
 And were one to the end — but what end who knows ? 
 Love deep as the sea, as a rose must wither. 
 
 As tlie rose-red sea-weed that mocks tlie rose. 
 
Shall the dead take thotight for the dead to love them ? 
 
 What love was ever as deep as a a;rave ? 
 They are loveless now as the grass above them, 
 Or the wave. 
 
 All are at one now. roses and lovers, 
 
 Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. 
 Not a breath of the time that has been hovers 
 
 In the air now soft with a summer to be. 
 Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter 
 
 Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep. 
 When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter, 
 We shall sleep. 
 
 Here death may deal not again forever; 
 
 Here change may come not till all change end. 
 From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, 
 
 Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. 
 Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, 
 
 While the sun and the rain live, these shalTbe; 
 Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing 
 Roll the sea ; 
 
 Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble. 
 Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink. 
 
 Till the strength of the waves of the'high tides humble 
 The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink. 
 
 Here now in his triumph where all things falter. 
 Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, 
 
 As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, 
 Death lies dead. 
 
 A MATCff. 
 
 If love were what the rose is, 
 
 And I were like the leaf, 
 Our lives would grow together 
 In sad or singing weather. 
 Blown fields or flowerful closes, 
 Green pleasure or gray grief : 
 If love were what the rose is. 
 And I were like the leaf. 
 
 If I were what the words are. 
 And love were like the tune. 
 With double sound and single 
 Delight our lips would mingle, 
 With kisses glad as birds are 
 
 That get sweet rain at noon; 
 If I were what the words are 
 And love were like the tune. 
 
 If you were life, my darling. 
 
 And I your love were death. 
 We'd shine and snow together 
 Ere March made sweet the weather 
 With daffodil and starling 
 
 And hours of fruitful lireath; 
 If you were life, my darling. 
 
 And 1 your love were death. 
 
 If you were thrall to sorrow, 
 
 And I were page to joy. 
 We'd play for lives and seasons. 
 With loving looks and treasons 
 And tears of night and morrow. 
 
 And laughs oi maid and boy; 
 If you were thrall to sorrow. 
 
 And I were page to joy. 
 
556 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 If you were April's lady, 
 And I were lord in ]May, 
 
 We'd throw with leaves tor hours. 
 
 And draw for days with flowers, 
 
 Till day like niu;lit were shady. 
 And night were hright like day; 
 
 If you were April's lady, 
 And I were lord in May. 
 
 If you were queen of pleasure, 
 
 And I were king of pain. 
 We'd hunt on the soldier's cheek 
 
 Washed off the stains of powder. 
 
Beyond the darkening ocean biu'ned 
 The bloody sunset's embers, 
 
 While the Crimean valleys learned 
 How English love remembers. 
 
 And once again a fire of hell 
 Kained on the Russian quarters, 
 
 AVith scream of shot, and burst of 
 shell, 
 And bellowing of the mortars ! 
 
 And Irish Nora's eyes are dim 
 For a singer, dundj and gory ; 
 
 And English Mary moiu'ns for him 
 AVho sang of " Airnie Lawrie."' 
 
 Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest 
 Your truth and valor wearing: 
 
 The bravest are the tenderest, — 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 TO A BAVARIAN GIRL. 
 
 Tuou, Bavaria's brown-eyed daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 Art a shape of joy. 
 Standing by the Isar's water 
 
 With thy brother-boy; 
 In thy dream, with idle fingers 
 
 Threading through his ctu'ls. 
 On thy cheek the sun's kiss lingers, 
 
 Rosiest of girls ! 
 
 Woods of glossy oak are ringing 
 
 With the echoes bland. 
 While thy generous voice is singing 
 
 Songs of Fatherland, — 
 Songs, that by the Daiuibe's river 
 
 Sound on hills of vine. 
 And where waves in green light 
 quiver, 
 
 Down the rushing Rhine. 
 
 Life, with all its hues and changes, 
 
 To thy heart doth lie 
 Like those di'eamy Alpine ranges 
 
 In the southern sky; 
 Where in haze the clefts are hidden, 
 
 Which the foot should fear. 
 And the crags that fall luibidden 
 
 Startle not the ear. 
 
 Where the village maidens gather 
 
 At the fountain's brim. 
 Or in sunny harvest weather. 
 
 With the reapers trim ; 
 Where the autumn fires are burning 
 
 On the vintage-hills ; 
 Where the mossy wheels are turning 
 
 In the ancient mills ; 
 
 Where from ruined robber towers 
 
 Hangs the ivy's hair. 
 And the crimson foxbell floAvers 
 
 On the crumbling stair; — 
 Everywhere, without thy presence. 
 
 Would the sunshine fail. 
 Fairest of the maiden peasants I 
 
 Flower of Isar's vale. 
 
 Sir Henry Taylor. 
 
 [From Philip Van Artevelde.] 
 I TNKiXO JFa\ ore A TNESS. 
 
 He was a man of that unsleeping 
 spirit. 
 
 He seemed to live by miracle; his 
 food 
 
 Was glory, which was poison to his 
 nund 
 
 And peril to his body. He was one 
 
 Of many thousand such that die be- 
 times, 
 
 Whose story is a fragment, known 
 to few. 
 
 Then comes the man who has the 
 luck to live. 
 
 And he's a prodigy. Compute the 
 chances, 
 
 And deem there's ne'er a one in dan- 
 gerous times 
 
 Who wins the race of glory, but than 
 him 
 
 A thousand men more gloriously en- 
 dowed 
 
Have fallen upon the course ; A thou- 
 sand others 
 
 Have had their fortunes foundered 
 by a chance, 
 
 Whilst "lighter barks pushed past 
 them ; to whom add 
 
 A smaller tally, of the singular few 
 
 Who, gifted with predominating pow- 
 ers, 
 
 Bear yet a temperate will and keep 
 the peace. 
 
 The world knows nothing of its great- 
 est men. 
 
 [From Philip Van Artevehle.] 
 THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. 
 
 This circulating princiiile of life 
 That vivifies the outside of the earth 
 And permeates the sea; that here 
 
 and there 
 Awakening up a particle of matter. 
 Informs it, organizes, gives it power 
 To gather and associate to itself. 
 Transmute, incorporate other, for a 
 
 term 
 Sustains the congruous fabric, and 
 
 then quits it ; 
 This vagrant principle so multiform, 
 Ebullient here and undetected there, 
 Is not unauthorized, nor increate. 
 Though indestructible. Life never 
 
 dies ; 
 Matter dies off it, and it lives else- 
 where, 
 Or elsehow circumstancetl and 
 
 shaped; it goes; 
 At every instant we may say 'tis gone, 
 But never it hath ceased ; the type is 
 
 changed. 
 Is ever in transition, for life's law 
 To its eternal essence doth prescribe 
 Eternal nmtability; and thus 
 To say I live — says, I partake of that 
 Which never dies. But how far I 
 
 may hold 
 An interest indivisible from life 
 Through change (and whether it be 
 
 mortal change. 
 Change of senescence, or of gradual 
 
 growth, 
 Or other whatsoever 'tis alike) 
 
 Is question not of argument, but fact. 
 
 In all men some such interest inheres ; 
 
 In most 'tis posthumous; the more 
 expand 
 
 Our thoughts and feelings past the 
 very present, 
 
 The more that interest overtakes of 
 change 
 
 And comprehends, till what it com- 
 prehends 
 
 Is comprehended in eternity. 
 
 And in no less a span. 
 
 Here we are 
 Engendered out of nothing cogniza- 
 ble. 
 If this be not a wonder, nothing is; 
 If this be Monderful, then all is so. 
 Asian's grosser attributes can generate 
 What is not, and has never been at all ; 
 What should forbid his fancy to 
 
 restore 
 A being passed away '? The wonder 
 
 lies 
 In the mind merely of the wondering 
 
 man. 
 Treading the steps of common life 
 
 with eyes 
 Of curious inquisition, some will stare 
 At each discovery of Nature's ways, 
 As it were new to find that God con- 
 trives. 
 
 [From Philip Van Artevelde.'] 
 
 LOVE RELUCTANT TO ENDANGER 
 ITS OBJECT. 
 
 TiiF.nE is but one thing that still 
 
 harks me back. 
 To bring a cloud upon the summer 
 
 day 
 Of one so happy and so beautiful, — 
 It is a hard condition. For myself, 
 I know not that the circumstance of 
 
 life 
 In all its changes can so far afflict me 
 As makes anticipation much worth 
 
 while. 
 But she is younger, — of a sex beside 
 Whose spirits are to ours as flame to 
 
 fire. 
 More sudden, and more perishable 
 
 too; 
 
So that the gust wherewith the one 
 
 is kindled 
 Extinguislies the other. O she is fair! 
 As fair as heaven to look upon ! as 
 
 fair 
 As ever vision of the Virgin blest 
 That weary pilgrim, resting by the 
 
 fount 
 Beneath the palm, and dreaming to 
 
 the tune 
 Of flowing waters, duped his soul 
 
 withal. 
 It was permitted in my pilgrimage 
 To rest beside the fomit beneath the 
 
 tree, 
 Beholding there no vision, but a maid 
 Whose form was light and graceful 
 
 as the palm. 
 Whose heart was pure and jocund as 
 
 the fount. 
 And spread a freshness and a ver- 
 dure round. 
 This was iiermitted in my pilgrimage. 
 And loath am I to take my staff again, 
 Say that I fall not in this enterprise ; 
 Yet must my life be full of hazardous 
 
 turns. 
 And they that house with me must 
 
 ever live 
 In imminent peril of some evil fate. 
 
 \_From Phiiij) Van Artevelde.] 
 
 NATURE'S NEED. 
 
 The human heart cannot sustain 
 Prolonged unalterable pain, 
 And not till reason cease to reign 
 Will nature want some moments brief 
 Of other moods to mix with grief; 
 Such and so hard to be destroyed 
 That vigor wliieh abhors a void. 
 And in the midst of all distress. 
 Such Nature's need for happiness! 
 And when she rallied thus, more 
 
 high 
 Her spirits ran, she knew not why. 
 Than was their wont, in times than 
 
 these 
 Less troubled, with a heart at ease. 
 So meet extremes: so joy's rebound 
 Is highest from the hollowest ground; 
 So vessels with the storm that strive 
 Pitch higher as they deeplier dive. 
 
 [From Philip Van Artevelde.] 
 WHEN JO YS ARE KEEXES T. 
 
 The sweets of converse and society 
 Are sweetest when they're snatched; 
 
 the often-comer. 
 The boon companion of a thousand 
 
 feasts. 
 Whose eye has grown familiar with 
 
 the fair. 
 Whose tutored tongue, by practice 
 
 perfect made, 
 Is tamely talkative, — he never knows 
 That truest, rarest light of social joy 
 Which gleams upon the man of many 
 
 cares. 
 
 [From Philip Van Artevelde.] 
 RELAXATION. 
 
 It was not meant 
 By him who on the back the biu'den 
 
 bound. 
 That cares, though public, critical, 
 
 and grave. 
 Should so encase us and encrust, as 
 
 shuts 
 The gate on what is beautiful below. 
 And clogs those entries of the soul of 
 
 man 
 Whicli lead the way to what he hath 
 
 of heaven. 
 
 JVHAT MAKES A HERO' 
 
 What makes a hero ? — not success, 
 
 not fame. 
 Inebriate merchants, and the loud 
 acclaim 
 Of glutted Avarice, — caps tossed 
 
 up in air. 
 Or pen of journalist with flourish 
 fair; 
 Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a 
 titular name — 
 These, though his rightful tribute, 
 he can spare ; 
 His rightful tribtite, not his end or 
 aim. 
 Or true reward ; for never yet did 
 these 
 
i)i-J, 
 
 TAYLOR. 
 
 Refresh llie soul, or set the heart 
 at ease. 
 What makes a hero '.* — An heroic 
 
 mind, 
 Expressed in action, in endurance 
 proved. [right. 
 
 And if there be pre-eminence of 
 Derived through pain well suffered, 
 to the height 
 f)f rank heroic, 'tis to bear un- 
 moved. 
 Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or 
 
 wind, 
 Not the brute fury of barbarians 
 blind. 
 But worse — ingratitude and poi- 
 sonous darts, 
 
 Launched by the country he had 
 served and loved: 
 This, with a free, unclouded spirit 
 
 pure, 
 This, in the strength of silence to 
 endure, 
 A dignity to noble deeds imparts 
 Beyond the gauds and trappings of 
 
 renown ; 
 This is the hero's complement and 
 crown ; 
 This missed, one struggle had been 
 
 wanting still, — 
 One glorious triumph of the heroic 
 will. 
 One self-approval in his heart of 
 hearts. 
 
 Jane Taylor. 
 
 THE SQCIRE\S PE]V. 
 
 A SLANTING ray of evening light 
 Shoots through the yellow pane; 
 
 It makes the faded crimson bright. 
 And gilds the fringe again; 
 
 The window's gothic framework falls 
 
 In oblique shadow on the walls. 
 
 And since those trappings first were 
 new. 
 
 How many a cloudless day. 
 To rob the velvet of its hue. 
 
 Has come and passed away ; 
 How many a setting sun bath made 
 That curious lattice-work of shade ! 
 
 Crumbled beneath the hillock green 
 Tlie cunning; hand must be. 
 
 That carved this fretted door, I ween. 
 Acorn, a,nd Jienr-de-Us ; 
 
 And )iow the worm hath done her 
 part 
 
 In mimicking the chisel's art. 
 
 In days of yore (as now we call^ 
 When the first Jaiiics was king. 
 
 The courtly knight from yonder hall 
 Hither his train did bring; 
 
 All seated round in order due, 
 
 AVith broidered suit and buckled shoe. 
 
 On damask cushions, set in fringe, 
 All reverently they knelt: 
 
 Prayer-books, witli brazen hasp and 
 hinge. 
 In ancient English spelt. 
 
 Each holding in a lily hand. 
 
 Responsive at the priest's counuand. 
 
 Now, streaming down the vaulted 
 aisle, 
 The sunbeam, long and lone. 
 Illumes the chai'acters awhile 
 Of their inscription-stone ; 
 And there, in marble hard and 
 
 cold. 
 The knight and all his train behold. 
 
 Outstretched together, are expressed 
 
 He and my lady fair; 
 With hands uplifted on the breast. 
 
 In attitude of prayer ; 
 Long-visaged, clad in armor, he, — 
 With ruffled ann and bodice, she. 
 
 Set forth in order ere they died. 
 The numerous offspring bend; 
 
 Devoutly kneelin2*side by side, 
 As though they did intend 
 
 For past omissions to atone. 
 
 By sayirig endless prayers in stone. 
 
TENNYSON. 
 
 573 
 
 These mellow days are past and dim. 
 
 But generations new, 
 In regular descent from him, 
 
 Have filled the stately pew; 
 And in the same succession go, 
 To occupy the vault below. 
 
 And now, the polished, modern squire 
 
 And his gay train api)ear, 
 Who duly to the hall retire, 
 
 A season, every year, — 
 And fill the seats with belle and beau, 
 As 'twas so many years ago. 
 
 Perchance, all though tlessas they tread 
 The hollow soimding floor. 
 
 Of that dark house of kindred dead, 
 Which shall, as heretofore, 
 
 In turn, receive, to silent rest, 
 Another, and another guest, — 
 
 The feathered hearse and sable 
 train, 
 In all its wonted state. 
 Shall wind along the village lane. 
 
 And stand before the gate ; 
 Brought many a distant country 
 
 through. 
 To join the final rendezvous. 
 
 And when the race is swept away. 
 
 All to their dusty beds, 
 Still shall the mellow evening ray 
 
 Shine gayly o"er their heads: 
 While other faces, fresh and new. 
 Shall occupy the squire's pew. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 COUPLETS FROM ''LOCKSLEY HALL." 
 
 Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands: 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might: 
 Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. 
 
 As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, 
 
 And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. 
 
 He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, 
 Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. 
 
 Comfort ? comfort scorned of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 
 
 Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, 
 In the dead unhappy night, when the rain is on the roof. 
 
 Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, 
 Let the great world spin forever dowTi the ringing grooves of change. 
 
 Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. 
 
574 
 
 TENNrSON. 
 
 [From In Memoriam.] 
 STUOXG SON OF GOD. 
 
 Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
 Whom we, that have not seen thy 
 
 face. 
 By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 
 
 Believing where we cannot prove; 
 
 Thine are these orbs of light and 
 
 shade; 
 
 Thou madest life in man and brute, 
 
 Thou madest Death; and lo, thy 
 
 foot 
 
 Is on the skull which thou hast made. 
 
 Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 
 Thou madest man, he knows not 
 
 why ; 
 He thinks he was not made to die ; 
 And thou hast made him: thou art 
 just. 
 
 Thou seemest human and divine, 
 Tlie highest, holiest manhood, 
 
 thou : 
 Our wills are ours, we know not 
 how ; 
 Our wills are ours, to make them 
 thine. 
 
 Our little systems have their day ; 
 They have their day and cease to be : 
 They are but broken lights of tliee. 
 
 And thou,0 Lord, art more than they. 
 
 We have but faith : we cannot know ; 
 For knowledge is of things we see: 
 And yet we trust it comes from 
 thee, 
 
 A beam in darkness: let it grow. 
 
 Let knowledge grow from more to 
 more, 
 But more of reverence in us dwell : 
 That mind and soul according well. 
 
 May make one music as before, 
 
 But vaster. We are fools and slight : 
 We mock thee when A\e do not 
 
 fear: 
 But help thy foolish ones to bear; 
 Help thv vain worlds to bear thy 
 light. 
 
 Forgive what seemed my sin in me: 
 A\ hat seemed my wortli since I 
 
 began ; 
 For merit lives from man to man. 
 
 And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 
 
 Forgive my grief for one removed, 
 Thy creature, whom I found so 
 
 fair, 
 I trust he lives in thee, and there 
 
 I find him worthier to be loved. 
 
 Forgive these Avild and wandering 
 cries, 
 Confusions of a wasted youth : 
 Forgive them Avhere they fail in 
 truth. 
 And in thy wisdom make me \\ise. 
 
 [From III Memoriam.] 
 HOPE FOR ALL. 
 
 Oil, yet we trust that somehow good 
 AVill be the final goal of ill. 
 To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood : 
 
 That nothing walks, with aindess 
 feet; 
 That not one life shall be destroyed, 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
 AVhen God hath made the pile com- 
 plete : 
 
 That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
 That not a nioth with vain desire 
 Is slirivelled in a fruitless fire, 
 
 Or but subserves another's gain. 
 
 Behold we know not anything: 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 At last — far-off — at last, to all. 
 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
 An infant crying in the night: 
 An infant crying for the light: 
 
 And with no language but a cry. 
 
 The wish, that of the living whole 
 No life may fail beyond the grave 
 Derives it not from wliat we have 
 
 The likest God within the soul ? 
 
Are God and Nature then at strife, 
 That Nature lends such evil 
 
 dreams? 
 So careful of the type she seems, 
 
 So careless of the single life; 
 
 That I, considering everywhere 
 Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
 And finding that of fifty seeds 
 
 She often brings but one to bear, 
 
 1 falter where I firmly trod, 
 And falling with my weight of 
 
 cares 
 Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
 That slope through darkness up to 
 God, 
 
 I stretch lame hands of faith, and 
 grope, 
 And" gather dust and chaff, and 
 
 call 
 To what I feel is Lord of all, 
 And faintly trust the larger hope. 
 
 IFrom In Memoriam.'] 
 SOUL TO SOUL. 
 
 I SHALL not see thee. Dare I say 
 No spirit ever brake the band 
 That stays him from the native 
 land. 
 Where first he walked when claspt in 
 clay ? 
 
 No visual shade of some one lost. 
 But he. the Spirit himself, may 
 
 come 
 Where all the nerve of sense is 
 numb 
 Spirit to spirit, ghost to ghost. 
 
 Oh, therefore from thy sightless 
 range 
 With gods in unconjectured bliss. 
 Oh, from the distance of the abyss 
 
 Of tenfold complicated change, 
 
 Descend, and touch, and enter: hear 
 The wish too strong for words to 
 name ; 
 
 That in this blindness of the frame 
 My ghost may feel that thine is near. 
 
 IFrom III Memoriam.] 
 
 COXDITION OF SPIRITUAL 
 COMMUNWX. 
 
 How pure at heart and sound in 
 head. 
 With what divine affections bold. 
 Should be the man whose thought 
 would hold 
 An hour's comnumion with the 
 dead. 
 
 In vain shalt thou, or any. call 
 The spirits from their golden day. 
 Except, like them, thou too canst 
 say. 
 
 My spirit is at peace with all. 
 
 They haunt the silence of the 
 breast. 
 Imagination calm and fair, 
 Theinemory like a cloudless ail-. 
 
 The conscience as a sea at rest : 
 
 But when the heart is full of din, 
 And Doubt beside the portal waits, 
 They can but listen at the gates, 
 
 And hear the household jar within. 
 
 [From In Mi inoi'han.] 
 FAITH I\ DOUBT. 
 
 Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 
 At last he beat his music out. 
 There lives more faith in honest 
 doubt. 
 
 Believe me, than in half the creeds. 
 
 He fought his doulits and gathered 
 strength. 
 He would not make his judgment 
 
 blind. 
 He faced the spectres of the mind 
 And laid tliem: thus he came at 
 length 
 
570 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 To find a stronger faith his own : 
 And Power was witli him in the 
 
 night, 
 Wliicli makes the darkness and tlie 
 liglit, 
 And dwells not in tlie liglit alone. 
 
 But in the darkness and the cloud, 
 As over Sinai's peaks of old, 
 While Israel made their gods of 
 gold. 
 
 Although the trumpet blew so loud. 
 
 [From In Memoriam.] 
 TO A FRIEND IN HE A VEN. 
 
 Deak friend, far off, my lost desire, 
 So far, so near in woe and weal : 
 
 loved the most, when most I feel 
 There is a lower and a higher; 
 
 Known and unknown: human, di- 
 vine: 
 Sweet human hand and lips and 
 
 eye: 
 Dear heavenly friend that canst 
 not die, 
 Mine, mine, forever, ever mine; 
 
 Strange friend, past, present, and to 
 ■"be: 
 Love deeplier, darklier understood : 
 Behold, I dream a dream of good. 
 
 And mingle all the world with thee. 
 
 Thy voice is on the rolling air: 
 
 1 hear thee where the waters run ; 
 Tliou standest in tlie rising sun. 
 
 And in the setting thou art fair. 
 
 What art tliou then ? I cannot guess ; 
 
 But though I seem in star and 
 (lower 
 
 To feel thee some diffusive power, 
 I do not therefore love thee less: 
 
 My love involves the love before : 
 My love is vaster passion now; 
 Though mixed with God and Na- 
 ture thou. 
 
 I seem to love thee more and more. 
 
 Far off thou art, but ever nigh : 
 I have thee still, and I rejoice: 
 I prosper, circled with thy voice: 
 
 I sliall not lose thee though I die. 
 
 {From In ^[emol^i<^m.} 
 liING OUT, WILD DELLS. 
 
 Ring out, Avild bells, to the wild sky, 
 Tlie flying cloud, the frosty light: 
 The year is dying in the niglit ; 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let iiini die. 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new. 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
 The year is going, let him go ; 
 
 Ring out the false,"ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
 For those that here we see no more : 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
 And ancient forms of party strife : 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
 The faithless coldness of the times : 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful 
 rhymes, 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and 
 blood. 
 
 The civic slander and the spite ; 
 
 Ring in the love of truth and right. 
 Ring in the common love of good! 
 
 Ring out old shapes of foul disease: 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man ami free. 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand: 
 Ring out the darkness of the land, 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
[From The Princess.] 
 TEARS, IDLE TEARS. 
 
 Tears, idle tears, I know not what 
 
 they mean, 
 Tears from the depth of some divine 
 
 despair 
 Rise in the heart, and gatlier to the 
 
 eyes. 
 In loolving on tlie happy autumn 
 
 fields. 
 And thinking of the days that are no 
 
 more. 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering 
 
 on a sail. 
 That brings our friends up from the 
 
 imderworld. 
 Sad as the last Avhich reddens over 
 
 one 
 That sinks with all we love below the 
 
 verge : 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 
 
 more. 
 
 Ah, sad and strange as in dark 
 summer dawns 
 
 The earliest pipe of half-awakened 
 birds 
 
 To dying ears, T\'hen unto dying eyes 
 
 The casement slowly grows a glim- 
 mering square: 
 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are 
 no more. 
 
 Dear as remembered kisses after 
 
 death. 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 
 
 feigned 
 On lips that are for others : deep as 
 
 love. 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all 
 
 regret : 
 O Death in Life, the days that are no 
 
 more. 
 
 [From The Princess.'] 
 FOR HIS CHILD'S SAKE. 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead : 
 She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: 
 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 " She must weep or she will die." 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low, 
 Called iiim worthy to be loved. 
 
 Truest friend and noblest foe : 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place. 
 
 Ijightly to the warrior stept, 
 Took the face-cloth from the face: 
 
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 
 Like summer tempest came 
 tears — 
 " Sweet my child, I live for thee." 
 
 her 
 
 [From The Princess.] 
 RECONCILIA TION. 
 
 As through the land at eve we went, 
 
 And plucked the ripest ears. 
 We fell out, my wife and I, 
 Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
 And kissed again with tears. 
 
 For when we came where lies the 
 child 
 
 We lost in other years. 
 There above the little grave. 
 Oh, there above the little grave, 
 
 We kissed again witli tears. 
 
 [From The Princess.] 
 BUGLE SONG. 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy sununits old in story : 
 The long light shakes across the 
 
 lakes 
 And the wild cataract leaps in 
 
 glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
 
 flying. 
 Blow, bugle: answer, echoes, dying, 
 
 dying, dying. 
 
 Oh, hark, oh, hear! how thin and 
 clear. 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
 Oh, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
 The horns of Ellland faintly blow- 
 ins! 
 
578 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens 
 
 replying: 
 Blow, bugle: answer echoes, dying, 
 
 dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky, 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river; 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
 
 flying, 
 And answer echoes, answer, dying, 
 dying, dying. 
 
 [From The Princess.] 
 NOW LIES THE EARTH. 
 
 Now lies the Earth all Danae to 
 the stars. 
 And all thy heart lies open unto me. 
 
 Now slides the silent meteor on, 
 and leaves 
 A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in 
 me. 
 
 Now folds the lily all her sweet- 
 ness up. 
 And slips into the bosom of the lake: 
 So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, 
 
 and slip 
 Into my bosom and be lost in me. 
 
 \_From The Princess.] 
 MAN AND WOMAN. 
 
 For woman is not undeveloped man, 
 But diverse: could we make her as 
 
 the man, 
 Sweet love were slain: his dearest 
 
 bond is this. 
 Not like to like, but like in difference. 
 Yet in the long years liker must they 
 
 grow: 
 The man be more of woman, she of 
 
 man : 
 He gain in sweetness and in moral 
 
 height. 
 Nor lose the wrestling thews that 
 
 throw the world ; 
 
 She mental breadth, nor fail in child- 
 ward care. 
 
 Nor lose the childlike in the larger 
 mind ; 
 
 Till at the last she set herself to man, 
 
 Like perfect music unto noble words: 
 
 And so these twain, upon the skirts 
 of Time. 
 
 Sit side by side, full-summed in all 
 their powers. 
 
 Dispensing harvest,sowing the To-be, 
 
 Self-reverent each and reverencing 
 each. 
 
 Distinct in individualities, 
 
 But like each other even as those 
 who love. 
 
 [From The Princess.] 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 Saveet and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the western sea. 
 Low, low. breathe and blow, 
 
 AVind of the western sea! 
 Over the rolling waters go. 
 Come from the dying moon, and 
 blow. 
 
 Blow him again to me: 
 While my little one, while my pretty 
 one sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
 Father will come to thee soon: 
 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
 Father will come to thee soon; 
 
 Father will come to his balie in the 
 nest. 
 
 Silver sails all out of the Avest 
 Under the silver moon: 
 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty 
 one, sleep, 
 
 [From The Princess.] 
 ASK ME NO MORE. 
 
 Ask me no more: the moon may 
 draw the sea; 
 The cloud may stoop from heaven 
 
 and take the shape, 
 W^ith fold to fold, of mountain or 
 of cape : 
 But O too fond, Avhen have I an- 
 swered thee ? 
 
 Ask me no more. 
 
TENNl'SON. 
 
 579 
 
 Ask me no more: What answer 
 should I give ? 
 I love not hollow cheek or faded 
 
 eye: 
 Yet, O my friend, I will not have 
 thee die ! 
 Ask me no more, lest I should bid 
 thee live: 
 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : thy fate and mine 
 are sealed : 
 1 strove against the stream and all 
 
 in vain: 
 Let the great river take me to the 
 main : 
 No more, dear love, for at a touch I 
 yield: 
 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 [From The MUler''s DaUfjhti'r.] 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love that hath us in the net, 
 Can he pass, and we forget ? 
 Many suns arise and set. 
 Many a chance the years beget. 
 Love the gift is Love the debt. 
 Even so. 
 
 Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
 Love is made a vague regret. 
 Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
 Idle habit links us yet. 
 What is love ? for we forget : 
 Ah, no! no! 
 
 [From The Miller's Daughter.] 
 HUSBAyn TO WIFE. 
 
 Look through mine eyes with thine. 
 True wife. 
 Round my true heart thine arms 
 entwine : 
 My other dearer life in life, 
 Look through my very soul with 
 thine! 
 Untouched with any shade of years. 
 May those kind eyes forever dwell! 
 They have not shed a many tears. 
 Dear eyes, since first I knew tliem 
 well. 
 
 Yet tears they shed : they had tlieir 
 part 
 Of sorrow: for when time was 
 ripe, 
 The still affection of tlie heart 
 
 Became an outward breathing type, 
 That into stillness passed again. 
 
 And left a want unknown before : 
 Although tlie loss that brought us 
 pain. 
 That loss but made us love the 
 more, 
 
 AVith farther lookings on. The kiss, 
 
 The woven aj-ms, seem but to be 
 Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 
 
 The comfort, I have found in tliee: 
 But that God bless thee, dear — who 
 wrought 
 Two sjiirits to one equal mind — 
 With blessings beyond hojie or 
 thought. 
 With blessings which no words 
 can find. 
 
 Arise, and let us wander forth. 
 
 To yon old mill across the wolds; 
 For look, the sunset, south and north, 
 
 Winds all the vale in rosy folds. 
 And fires your narrow casement 
 glass. 
 
 Touching the sullen pool below: 
 On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 
 
 Is dry and dewless, let us go. 
 
 [From. The Miller's Daughter.] 
 WHAT I WOULD BE. 
 
 It is the miller's daughter, 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear. 
 That 1 would be the jewel 
 
 That trembles at her ear: 
 For hid in ringlets day and night, 
 I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 
 
 And I would lie the girdle 
 
 About her dainty, dainty waist, 
 
 And her heai't would beat against me. 
 In sorrow and in rest: 
 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 
 I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
580 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 And I would be the necklace, 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 
 Upon her balmy bosom, 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs. 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 
 I scarce should be unclasped at night. 
 
 [From Merlin and Vivien.'] 
 NOT AT ALL, OP, ALL IN ALL. 
 
 In Love, if Love be Love, if Love 
 
 be ours, 
 Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal 
 
 powers ; 
 Unfaith in aught is want of faith in 
 
 all. 
 
 It is the little rift within the lute. 
 That by and by will make the music 
 
 mute. 
 And ever widening slowly silence ah. 
 
 The little rift within the lover's 
 
 lute 
 Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit, 
 That rotting inward, slowly moulders 
 
 all. 
 
 It is not worth the keeping: let 
 
 it go: 
 But shalfit ? answer, darling, answer, 
 
 no. 
 And trust me not at all or all in all. 
 
 \_From Maud.'] 
 GARDEN SONG. 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 
 For the black bat, night, has flown, 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 I am here at the gate alone: 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted 
 abroad. 
 And the musk of the roses blown. 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves, 
 And the planet of Love is on high, 
 
 Beginning to faint in the light that 
 she loves 
 On a bed of daffodil sky, 
 
 To faint in the light of the sun that 
 she loves. 
 To faint in his light, and to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 
 The flute, violin, bassoon : 
 All night has the casement jessamine 
 stirred 
 To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
 Till a silence fell with the waking 
 bird, 
 And a hush with the setting moon. 
 
 I said to the lily, " There is but one 
 With whom she has heart to be 
 gay. 
 When will the dancers leave her 
 alone ? 
 She is weary of dance and play." 
 Now half to the setting inoon are 
 gone. 
 And half to the rising day ; 
 Low on the sand and loud on the 
 stone 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 I said to the rose, '" The brief night 
 goes 
 In babble and revel and wine. 
 O young lord-lover, what sighs are 
 those. 
 For one that will never be thine ? 
 But mine, but nune," so I sware to 
 the rose, 
 " Forever and ever, mine." 
 
 And the soul of the rose went into 
 my blood, 
 As the nuisic clashed in the hall ; 
 And long by the garden lake I stood. 
 
 For I iieard your rivulet fall 
 From the lake to the meadow and on 
 to the wood, 
 Our wood, that is dearer than all; 
 
 From the meadow your walks have 
 left so sweet 
 That whenever a March wind sighs 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet, 
 
 In violets blue as your eyes, 
 To the woody hollows in which we 
 meet 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 
 
 Page 580. 
 
TENNYSON. 
 
 581 
 
 The slender acacia would not shake 
 
 One long milk-bloom on the ti'ee; 
 The white lake-blossom fell into the 
 lake, 
 
 As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
 But the rose was awake all night for 
 yovu' sake, 
 
 Knowing your promise to me; 
 The lilies and roses were all awake. 
 
 They sighed for the dawn and thee. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
 girls. 
 Come hither, the dances are done. 
 In gloss of satin and glimmer of 
 pearls. 
 Queen lily and rose in one; 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over 
 with curls, 
 To the flowers, and be their sun. 
 
 There has fallen a splendid tear 
 
 From the passion-flower at the gate. 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear; 
 She is coming, my life, my fate; 
 The red rose cries, '" She is near, she 
 is near;" 
 And th« white rose weeps, " She is 
 late;"' 
 The larkspur listens, "I hear, I 
 hear ; " ' 
 And the lily whispers, " I wait." 
 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet; 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread, 
 My heart would hear her, and beat, 
 
 AVere it earth in an earthy bed. 
 My dust would hear her, and beat. 
 
 Had I lain for a century dead: 
 Would start and tremble under her 
 feet. 
 
 And blossom in purple and red. 
 
 [From Maud.] 
 GO NOT, HAPPY DAY. 
 
 Go not, happy day. 
 
 From the shining fields, 
 Go not, happy day, 
 
 Till the maiden yields. 
 Eosy is the West, 
 
 Eosy is the South, 
 Eoses are her cheeks. 
 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 
 When the happy Yes 
 
 Falters from her lips. 
 Pass and blush the news 
 
 O'er the blowing ships. 
 Over blowing seas. 
 
 Over seas at rest, 
 Pass the happy news, 
 
 Blush it through the West, 
 Till the red man dance 
 
 By his red cedar-tree. 
 And the red man's babe 
 
 Leaj), beyond the sea. 
 Blush from West to East, 
 
 Blush from East to West, 
 Till the AVest is East, 
 
 Blush it through the West. 
 Eosy is the West, 
 
 Eosy is the South, 
 Eoses are her cheeks, 
 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 
 \_From, Gtiinevere.] 
 THE NUNS' SONG. 
 
 Late, late, so late! and dark the 
 
 night and chill ! 
 Late, late, so late ! but we can enter 
 
 still. 
 Too late, too late! ye cannot enter 
 
 now. 
 
 No light had we: for that M-e do 
 
 repent : 
 And learning this, the bridegroom 
 
 will relent. 
 Too late, too late! ye cannot enter 
 
 now. 
 
 No light: so late! and dark and 
 
 chill the night; 
 Oh, let us in, that we may find the 
 
 light! 
 Too late, too late! ye cannot enter 
 
 now. 
 
 Have we not heard the bride- 
 groom is so sweet ? 
 
 Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss his 
 feet! 
 
 No, no, too late! ye cannot enter 
 now. 
 
582 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAH. 
 
 Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
 And the winter winds are wearily 
 
 sighing: 
 Toll ye tlie church-bell sad and slow, 
 And tread softly and speak low, 
 For the old year lies a-dying. 
 Old year, you must not die : 
 You came to us so readily, 
 You lived with us so steadily, 
 Old year, you shall not die. 
 
 He lieth still ; he doth not move ; 
 
 He will not see the dawn of day. 
 
 He hath no other life above; [love. 
 
 He gave me a friend, and a true, true- 
 
 And the new year will take 'em away. 
 Old year, you must not go: 
 So long as you have been with us, 
 Such joy as you have seen with us. 
 Old year, you shall not go. 
 
 He frothed his bumpers to the brim; 
 
 A jollier year we shall not see; 
 
 But though his eyes are waxing dim, 
 
 And though his foes speak ill of him. 
 
 He was a friend to me. 
 Old year; you shall not die: 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 
 I've half a mind to die with you, 
 Old year, if you must die. 
 
 He was full of joke and jest, 
 But all his merry quips are o'er. 
 To see him die across the waste 
 His son and heir doth lide post-haste, 
 But he'll be dead before. 
 
 Every one for his own. 
 
 The night is starry and cold, my 
 friend. 
 
 And the new year, blithe and bold, 
 my friend, 
 
 Comes up to take his own. 
 
 How hard he breathes ! over the snow 
 I heard just now the crowing cock. 
 The shadows flicker to and fro: 
 The cricket chirps: the light burns 
 
 low: 
 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock 
 
 Shaki' hands before you die. 
 
 Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: 
 
 What is it we can do for you ? 
 
 Speak out before you die. 
 
 His face is growing sharp and thin. 
 Alack ! our friend is gone. 
 Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: 
 Step from the corpse, and let him in 
 That standeth there alone, 
 
 And waiteth at the door. 
 - There's a new foot on the floor, my 
 friend. 
 
 And a new face at the door, my 
 friend, 
 
 A new face at the door. 
 
 A WELCOME TO ALEXAXDllA. 
 
 Sea-kings' daughter from over the 
 
 sea, 
 
 Alexandra! 
 Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
 But all of us Danes in our welcome 
 
 of thee, 
 
 Alexandra ! 
 Welcome her, thunders of fort and 
 
 of fleet! 
 Welcome her, thundering cheer of 
 
 the street! 
 Welcome her, all things youthful and 
 
 sweet. 
 Scatter the blossom under her feet! 
 Break, happy land, into earlier flow- 
 ers! 
 Make music, O l)ird, in the new-bud- 
 ded bowers! 
 Blazon your mottoes of blessing and 
 
 prayer ! 
 Welcome her, welcome her, all that 
 
 is ours ! 
 Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
 Flags, flutter out upon turrets and 
 
 towers ! 
 Flames, on the windy headland flare! 
 Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire! 
 Clash, ye bells, in the meriy March 
 
 air! 
 Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire! 
 Rush to the i-oof, sudden rocket, and 
 
 higher 
 Melt into the stars for the land's 
 
 desire ! 
 Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice, 
 Roll as a ground-swell dashed on the 
 
 strand, 
 Roar as the sea when he welcomes 
 
 the land, 
 
TENNYSON. 
 
 583 
 
 And welcome her, welcome the land's 
 
 desire, 
 The sea-kings' daughter, as happy as 
 
 fair, 
 Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
 Bride of the heir of the kings of the 
 
 sea — 
 O joy to the people, and joy to the 
 
 throne, 
 Come to us, love us, and make us 
 
 your own, 
 For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, 
 Teuton or Celt or whatever we be. 
 We are each all Dane in our welcome 
 
 of thee, 
 
 Alexandra! 
 
 LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Of me you shall not win renown : 
 You thought to break a country 
 heart 
 
 For pastime, ere you went to 
 town. 
 At me you smiled, but un beguiled 
 
 I saw the snare, and I retired : 
 The daughter of a hundred earls, 
 
 You are not one to be desired. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 I know you proud to bear your 
 name. 
 Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 
 Too proud to care from whence I 
 came. 
 Nor would I break for your sweet 
 sake 
 A heart that doats on truer 
 charms. 
 A simple maiden in her flower 
 Is worth a hundred coats of arms. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Some meeker pupil you must 
 find 
 For were you queen of all that is, 
 
 I could not stoop to such a mind. 
 You sought to prove how I could 
 love. 
 
 And my disdain is my reply. 
 The lion on your old stone gates 
 
 Is not more cold to you than I. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 You put strange memories in my 
 head ; 
 Nor thrice your branching limes have 
 blown 
 Since I beheld young Laurence 
 dead. 
 Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies : 
 
 A great enchantress you may be : 
 But tliere was that across his throat 
 Which you had hardly cared to see. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 When thus he met his mother's 
 view, 
 She had the passions of her kind, 
 She spake some certain truths of 
 you. 
 Indeed I heard one bitter word 
 
 That scarce is fit for you to hear: 
 Her manners had not that repose 
 Which stamps the caste of Vere de 
 Vere. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 There stands a spectre in your hall: 
 The guilt of blood is at your door: 
 You changed a wholesome heart to 
 gall. 
 You held your course without re- 
 morse* 
 To make him trust his modest 
 worth, 
 And, last, yon fixed a vacant stare. 
 And slew him with your noble 
 birth. 
 
 Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 From yon blue heavens above us 
 bent 
 The grand old gardener and his wife 
 
 Smile at the claims of long descent. 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
 
 'Tis only noble to be good. 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman 
 blood. 
 
 I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 You pine among your halls and 
 towers : 
 
 The languid light of your proud eyes 
 Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
 
584 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 In glowing health, with boundless 
 wealth. 
 But siclcening of a vague disease, 
 You know so ill to deal with time. 
 You needs must play such i^ranks 
 as these. 
 
 ('lara, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 If Time be heavy on your hands, 
 Are there no beggars at your gate, 
 
 Nor any poor about your lands ? 
 Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read, 
 
 Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
 Pray Heaven for a human heart. 
 
 And let the foolish yeoman go. 
 
 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 HaJf a league onA\'ard, 
 All in the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 "Forward, the Light Brigade! 
 Charge for the guns! " he said. 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Ilode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
 Was there a man dismayed ? 
 Not though the soldiers knew 
 
 Some one had blundered : 
 Theirs not to make reply. 
 Theirs not to reason why. 
 Theirs but to do and die, 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 Volleyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell. 
 Boldly they rode and well. 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Flashed all their sabres bare. 
 Flashed as they turned in air. 
 Sabring the gunners there. 
 Charging an army, while 
 All the world wondered : 
 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
 Right throughthe line theybroke ; 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reeled from the sabre-stroke 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back, but not. 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon behind them, 
 
 Volleyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell. 
 While horse and hero fell, 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came through the jaws of Death 
 Back from the mouth of Hell, 
 All that was left of them, 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade ? 
 Oh, the wild charge they made! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Light Brigade ! 
 
 Noble six hundred ! 
 
 BREAK, BREAK. BREAK. 
 
 Bp.kak. break, break. 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea I 
 And I would that my tongue could 
 utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 Oh, well for the fisherman's boy. 
 That he shouts with his sister at 
 play ! 
 Oh, well for the sailor lad. 
 That he sings in his boat on the 
 bay! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 
 To their haven under the hill: 
 But oh, for the touch of a vanished 
 hand, 
 And the sound of a voice that is 
 still! 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is 
 dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH. I* COME NOT WHEN I AM DEAD. 
 
 Move eastward, happy earth, and 
 leave 
 
 Yon orange sunset waning slow: 
 From fringes of the faded eve, 
 
 O happy planet, eastward go: 
 Till over thy dark shoulder glow, 
 
 Thy silver-sister world, and rise 
 
 To glass herself in dewy eyes 
 That watch me from the glen below. 
 
 Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, 
 Dip forwai'd under starry light, 
 
 And move me to my marriage-morn. 
 And round again to happy night. 
 
 THE TEARS OF HE A VEN. 
 
 Heavex weeps above the earth all 
 
 night till morn. 
 In darkness weeps as all ashamed to 
 
 weep. 
 Because the earth hath made her state 
 
 forlorn 
 With self-wrought evil of unnum- 
 bered years. 
 And doth the fruit of her dishonor 
 
 reap. 
 And all the day heaven gathers back 
 
 hei' tears 
 Into her own blue eyes so clear and 
 
 deep. 
 And showering down the glory of 
 
 lightsome day, 
 Smiles on the earth's worn brow to 
 
 win her if she may. 
 
 Come not when I am dead. 
 To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
 grave, 
 To trample round my fallen head. 
 And vex the unhappy dust thou 
 wouldst not save. 
 There let the wind sweep and the 
 plover cry; 
 
 But thou go by. 
 
 Child, if it were thine error or thy 
 crime 
 I care no longer, being all unblest: 
 Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick 
 of Time, 
 And I desire to rest. 
 Pass on, weak heart, and leave me 
 where I lie: 
 
 Go by, go by. 
 
 CIRC U MS TANCE. 
 
 Two children in two neighbor vil- 
 lages [leas: 
 
 Playing mad pranks along the healthy 
 
 Two strangers meeting at a festival : 
 
 Two lovers whispering by an orcliard 
 wall : 
 
 Two lives bound fast in one with 
 golden ease: 
 
 Two graves grass-green beside a gray 
 church-to^^'er 
 
 Waslied with still rains and daisy- 
 blossomed ; 
 
 Two children in one hamlet born and 
 bred : [to houi*. 
 
 So runs tire round of life from liour 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 AT THE CHURCH-GATE. 
 
 Although I enter not. 
 Yet round about the spot, 
 
 Ofttimes I hover; 
 And near the sacred gate, 
 With longing eyes I wait, 
 
 Expectant of lier. 
 
 The minster-bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout. 
 
 And noise and humming; 
 They've hushed the minster-bell, 
 Tlie organ 'gins to swell, — 
 
 She's coming, — coming! 
 
586 
 
 THAXTEE. 
 
 My lady comes at last, * 
 
 I will not enter there. 
 
 Timid ami stepping fast, 
 
 To sully your pure prayer, 
 
 And hastening hither. 
 
 AVith thoughts unruly. 
 
 With modest eyes downcast; 
 
 
 She comes, — she's here, — she's past; 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 
 May heaven go with lier! 
 
 Round the forbidden place, 
 
 
 lingering a minute. 
 
 Kneel undisturhed, fair saint. 
 
 Like outcast spirits who wait, 
 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 And s(!e, througli heaven's gate, 
 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 \) 
 
 Celia Thaxter. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 The crimson sunset faded into gray ; 
 Upon tlie murmurous sea the twi- 
 light fell ; 
 The last warm breath of the de- 
 licious day 
 Passed with a nuite farewell. 
 
 Above my head, in the soft purple 
 sky, 
 A wild note sounded like a shrill- 
 voiced bell; 
 Three gulls met, wheeled, and parted 
 with a cry 
 That seemed to say, '• Farewell!" 
 
 I watched them ; one sailed east, and 
 one soared west. 
 And one went floating south ; while 
 like a knell 
 That mournful cry the empty sky 
 possessed. 
 "Farewell, farewell, farewell!" 
 
 "Farewell!" I thought, it is the 
 earth's one speecli; 
 All human voices the sad chorus 
 swell ; 
 Though mighty love to heaven's high 
 gate may reach. 
 Yet must he say, "Farewell!" 
 
 The rolling world is girdled with the 
 sound. 
 Perpetually breathed from all who 
 dwell 
 Upon its bosom, for no place is found 
 Where is not lieard, " Farewell!" 
 
 " Farewell, farewell ! " — from wave 
 to wave 't is tossed, 
 From wind to wind : earth has one 
 tale to tell ; 
 All other sounds are dulled and 
 drowned and lost 
 In this one cry, " Farewell! " 
 
 DISCOXTEXT. 
 
 Therk is no day so dark 
 But through the murk some ray of 
 
 hope may steal. 
 Some blessed touch from heaven that 
 we might feel, 
 If we but chose to mark. 
 
 We shut the portals fast, 
 And tui-n the key and let no sunshine 
 
 in; 
 Yet to the worst despair that comes 
 through sin 
 God's light shall reach at last. 
 
 We slight our daily joy. 
 Make much of our vexations, thickly 
 
 set 
 Our path with thorns of discontent, 
 and fret 
 At our tine gold's alloy. 
 
 Till bounteous heaven might frown 
 At such ingratitude, and, turning, 
 
 lay 
 On our impatience, burdens that 
 would weigh 
 Our aching shoulders down. 
 
We shed too many tears, 
 And sigh too sore, and yield us up to 
 
 woe, 
 As if God had not planned the way 
 we go 
 And counted out our years. 
 
 Can we not be content, 
 And lift our foreheads from the igno- 
 ble dust 
 Of these complaining lives, and wait 
 with trust. 
 Fulfilling heaven's intent ? 
 
 Must we have wealth and power, 
 Fame, beauty, all things ordered to 
 
 our mind ? 
 Nay, all these things leave happiness 
 behind ! 
 Accept the sun and shower, 
 
 The humble joys that bless, 
 Appealing to indifferent hearts and 
 
 coki 
 With delicate touch, striving to reach 
 and hold 
 Our hidden consciousness ; 
 
 And see how everywhere 
 Love comforts, strengthens, helps, 
 
 and saves us all ; 
 What opportunities of good befall 
 
 To make life sweet and fair ! 
 
 THE SUyniSE NEVER FAILED US 
 YET. 
 
 Upon the sadness of the sea 
 The sunset broods regretfully; 
 From the far lonely spaces, slow 
 Withdraws the wistful afterglow. 
 
 So out of life the splendor dies; 
 So darken all the happy skies; 
 So gathers twilight, cold and stern; 
 But overhead the planets burn; 
 
 And up the east another day 
 Shall cliase the bitter dark away ; 
 What though our eyes with tears be 
 
 wet ? 
 The sunrise never failed us yet. 
 
 The blush of dawn may yet restore 
 Our light and hope and joy once 
 
 more 
 Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget 
 That sunrise never failed us yet! 
 
 A MUSSEL-SHELL. 
 
 Why art thou colored like the even- 
 ing sky 
 
 Sorrowing for sunset ? Lovely dost 
 thou lie. 
 
 Bared by the washing of- the eager 
 brine. 
 
 At the snow's motionless and wind- 
 carved line. 
 
 Cold stretch the snows, cold throng 
 the Avaves, the wind 
 
 Stings sharp, — an icy fire, a touch 
 unkind, — 
 
 And sighs as if with passion of re- 
 gret. 
 
 The while I mark thy tints of violet. 
 
 O beauty strange ! O shape of perfect 
 
 grace, 
 Whereon the lovely waves of color 
 
 trace 
 The history of the years that passed 
 
 thee by. 
 And touched thee with the pathos of 
 
 the sky! 
 
 The sea shall crush thee; yea, the 
 ponderous wave 
 
 Up the loose beach shall grind, and 
 scoop thy grave. 
 
 Thou thought of God! What more 
 than thou am I ? 
 
 Both transient as the sad wind's pass- 
 ing sigh. 
 
 nE VEllIE. 
 
 The white reflection of the sloop's 
 great sail 
 Sleeps trembling on the tide. 
 In scarlet trim her crew lean o'er the 
 rail, 
 Lounging on either side. 
 
588 
 
 THAXTER. 
 
 Pale blue and streaked with pearl the 
 waters lie, 
 And glitter in the lieat; 
 Tlie distance gatliers purple bloom 
 where sky 
 And glimmering coast-line meet. 
 
 From tlie cove's curving rim of sandy 
 gray 
 The ebbing tide has drained, 
 Where, mournful, in the dusk of 
 yesterday 
 The curlew's voice complained. 
 
 Half lost in hot mirage the sails afar 
 Lie dreaming, still and white; 
 
 No wave breaks, no wind breathes, 
 the peace to mar, 
 Summer is at its height. 
 
 How many thousand summers thus 
 have shone 
 Across the ocean waste. 
 Passing in swift succession, one by 
 one 
 By the fierce winter chased ! 
 
 The gray rocks blushing soft at dawn 
 and eve, 
 The green leaves at tlieir feet, 
 The dreaming sails, the crying birds 
 that grieve. 
 Ever themselves repeat. 
 
 And yet how dear and how forever 
 fair 
 Is Nature's friendly face. 
 And how forever new and sweet and 
 rare 
 Each old familiar grace! 
 
 What matters it that she will sing 
 and smile 
 
 When we are dead and still ? 
 Let us be happy in her beauty while 
 
 Our hearts have power to thrill. 
 
 Let us rejoice in every moment 
 bright. 
 Grateful that it is ours ; 
 Bask in her smiles with ever fresh 
 delight. 
 And gather all her flowers ; 
 
 For presently we part: what will 
 avail 
 Her rosy fires of dawn. 
 Her noontide pomps, to us, who fade 
 and fail. 
 Our hands from hers withdrawn ? 
 
 LOVE SHALL SAVE US ALL. 
 
 O PILGRIM, comes the niglit so fast? 
 
 Let not the dark thy heart appall. 
 Though loom the shadows vague and 
 vast. 
 
 For love shall save us all. 
 
 There is no hope but this to see 
 Through tears that gather fast, and 
 fall ; 
 
 Too great to perish love must be, 
 And love shall save us all. 
 
 Have patience with our loss and 
 pain. 
 Our troubled space of days so 
 small ; 
 We shall not reach our arms in vain, 
 For love shall save us all. 
 
 O ]^ilgrim, but a moment wait. 
 And we shall hear our darlings 
 call 
 
 Beyond death's mute and awful gate, 
 And love shall save us all ! 
 
 TO A VIOLIN. 
 
 What wondrous power from heaven 
 upon thee wrought '? 
 What prisoned Ariel within thee 
 broods ? 
 Marvel of human skill and human 
 thought, 
 Light as a dry leaf in the winter 
 woods ! 
 
 Thou mystic thing, all beautiful! 
 What mind 
 Conceived thee, what intelligence 
 began 
 And out of chaos thy rare shape de- 
 signed. 
 Thou delicate and perfect work of 
 man ? 
 
THAXTEB. 
 
 589 
 
 Across my hands thou liest mute and 
 
 still; 
 Thou wilt not breathe to me thy 
 
 secret fine; 
 Thy matchless tones the eager air 
 
 shall thrill 
 To no entreaty or command of 
 
 mine; 
 
 But comes thy master, lo ! thou yield- 
 est all : 
 Passion and pathos, rapture and 
 despair ; 
 To the soul's need thy searching 
 voice doth call 
 In language exquisite beyond com- 
 pare, 
 
 Till into speech articulate at last 
 Thou seem'st to break, and thy 
 charmed listener hears 
 Thee waking echoes of the vanished 
 past. 
 Touching the source of gladness 
 and of tears ; 
 
 And with bowed head he lets the 
 sweet wave roll 
 Across him, swayed by that weird 
 power of thine, 
 And reverence and wonder fill his 
 soul 
 That man's creation should be so 
 divine. 
 
 COURAGE. 
 
 Because I hold it sinful to despond. 
 And will not let the bitterness of 
 life 
 Blind me with burning tears, but 
 look beyond 
 Its tumult and its strife; 
 
 Because I lift my head above the 
 mist. 
 Where the sun shines and the 
 broad breezes blow, 
 By every ray and every rain-drop 
 kissed 
 That God's love doth bestow; 
 
 Think you I find no bitterness at all? 
 No burden to be borne, like Chris- 
 tian's pack ? 
 Think you there are no ready tears 
 to fall 
 Because I keep them back ? 
 
 Why should I hug life's ills with cold 
 reserve, 
 To curse myself and all who love 
 me? Nay! 
 A thousand times more good than I 
 deserve 
 God gives me every day. 
 
 And in each one of these rebellious 
 tears 
 Kept bravely back, He makes a 
 rainbow shine; 
 Grateful I take His slightest gift, no 
 fears 
 Nor any doubts are mine. 
 
 Dark skies must clear, and when the 
 clouds are jiast. 
 One golden day redeems a weary 
 year; 
 Patient I listen, sure that sweet at 
 last 
 Will sound his voice of cheer. 
 
 Then vex me not with chiding. Let 
 me be. 
 I must be glad and grateful to the 
 end; 
 I grudge you not your cold and dark- 
 ness, — me 
 The powers of light befriend. 
 
 IN KITTERY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Crushing the scarlet strawberries in 
 the grass, 
 
 I kneel to reael the slanting stone. 
 Alas! 
 
 How sharp a sorrow speaks ! A hun- 
 dred years 
 
 And more have vanished, with their 
 sjniles and tears. 
 
 Since here was laid, upon an April 
 day, 
 
 Sweet Mary Chauncy in the grave 
 away, — 
 
590 
 
 THAXTER. 
 
 A hundred years since here her lover 
 
 stood 
 Beside her grave iu such despairing 
 
 mood, 
 And yet from out the vanished past 
 
 I hear 
 His cry of anguish sounding deep 
 
 and clear, 
 And all my heart with pity melts, as 
 
 though 
 To-day's bright sun were looking on 
 
 his woe. 
 "Of such a wife, O righteous heav- 
 en! bereft. 
 What joy for me, what joy on earth 
 
 IS left ? 
 Still from my inmost soul the groans 
 
 arise. 
 Still flow the sorrows ceaseless from 
 
 mine eyes." 
 Alas, poor tortured soul ! I look 
 
 away 
 From the dark stone, — how brilliant 
 
 shines the day! 
 A low wall, over which the roses 
 
 shed 
 Their perfumed petals, shuts the 
 
 quiet dead 
 Apart a little, and the tiny square 
 Stands in the broad and laughing 
 
 field so fair, 
 And gay green vines climb o'er the 
 
 rough stone wall, ' 
 
 And all about the wild-birds flit and 
 
 call. 
 And but a stone' s-throw southward. 
 
 the blue sea 
 Rolls sparkling in and sings inces- 
 santly. 
 Lovely as any dream the peaceful 
 
 place, 
 And scarc<;ly changed since on her 
 
 gentle face 
 For the last time on that sad April 
 
 day 
 He gazed, and felt, for him, all beauty 
 
 lay [him 
 
 liuried with her forever. Dull to 
 Looked the bright world through 
 
 eyes with tears so dim! 
 " I soon shall follow the same dreary 
 
 way 
 That leads and opens to the coasts 
 
 of day." 
 
 His only hope ! But when slow time 
 
 had dealt 
 Firmly with him and kindly, and he 
 
 felt 
 The storm and stress of strong and 
 
 piercing pain 
 Yielding at last, and he grew calm 
 
 again, 
 Doubtless he found another mate 
 
 before 
 He followed Maiy to the happy 
 
 shore I 
 But none the less his grief appeals to 
 
 me 
 Who sit and listen to the singing sea 
 This matchless summer day, beside 
 
 the stone 
 He made to echo with his bitter 
 
 moan, 
 And in my eyes I feel the foolish 
 
 tears 
 For bui'ied sorrow, dead a hundred 
 
 years !_ 
 
 HEETHOVEN. 
 
 O SovERKKJN Master! stern and 
 splendid power, 
 That calmly dost both time and 
 death defy; 
 Lofty and lone as mountain peaks 
 that tower. 
 Leading our thoughts up to the 
 eternal sky: 
 Keeper of some divine, mysterious 
 key. 
 Raising us far above all human 
 care, 
 Unlocking awful gates of harmony 
 To let heaven's light in on ithe 
 world's despair; 
 Smiter of solemn chords that still 
 command 
 Echoes in souls that suffer and as- 
 pire, 
 In the great moment while we hold 
 thy hand, 
 Baptized with pain and rapture, 
 tears and lire, 
 God lifts our saddened foreheads 
 
 from the dust. 
 The everlasting God, in whom we 
 trust ! 
 
THOMSON. 
 
 591 
 
 THE SANDPIPER. 
 
 Across the narrow beach we flit, 
 
 One little sandpiper and I 
 And fast I gather, l)it by bit. 
 
 The scattered driftwood bleached 
 and dry 
 The wild waves reach their hands 
 for it, [high, 
 
 The wild wind raves, the tide runs 
 As up and down the beach we flit, — 
 
 One little sandpiper and I. 
 
 Above our heads the sullen clouds 
 
 Scud black and swift across the sky ; 
 Like silent ghosts in mistv shrouds' 
 
 Stand out the white lighthouses 
 high. 
 Almost as far as eye can reach 
 
 I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 
 As fast we flit along the beach,— 
 
 One little sandpiper and I. 
 
 I watch him as he skims along 
 
 Uttering his sweet and mournful 
 cry; 
 He starts not at my fitful song. 
 
 Or flash of fluttering drapery; 
 He has no thought of any wrong. 
 
 He scans me with a fearless eye ; 
 Stanch friends are Ave, well tried and 
 strong. 
 
 The little sandpiper and I. 
 
 Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night 
 When the loosed storm breaks furi- 
 ously ? 
 
 My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 
 To what warm shelter canst thou 
 
 fly'' 
 
 I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
 The tempest rushes through the 
 sky : 
 
 For are we not God's children both. 
 Thou, little sandpiper, and I ? 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 [From The Seasons.] 
 PURE AND HAPPY LOVE. 
 
 But happy they! the happiest of 
 
 their kind ! 
 Whom gentler stars unite, and in one 
 
 fate 
 Their hearts, their fortunes, and 
 
 their beings blend. 
 'Tis not the coarser tie of human 
 
 laws. 
 Unnatural oft, and foreign to the 
 
 mind, 
 Tliat binds their peace, but harmony 
 
 itself, 
 Attuning all their passions into love; 
 Where Friendship full-exerts her 
 
 softest power. 
 Perfect esteem enlivened by desire 
 Ineffable, and sympathy of" soul; 
 Thought meeting thought, and will 
 
 preventing will, 
 With boimdless confidence: for 
 
 nought but love 
 Can answer love, and render bliss 
 
 secure. 
 
 [From The Seasons.] 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 Unusual darkness broods; and 
 
 growing, gains 
 The full possession of the sky, sur- 
 charged 
 With wrathful vapor, from the secret 
 
 beds. 
 Where sleep the mineral generations, 
 
 drawn. 
 Thence nitre, sulphur, and the fiery 
 
 spume 
 Of fat bitumen, steaming on the day. 
 With various-tinctured trains of 
 
 latent flame. 
 Pollute the sky, and in yon baleful 
 
 cloud, 
 A reddening gloom, a magazine of 
 
 fate, 
 Ferment; till, by the touch ethereal 
 
 roused. 
 The dash of clouds, or irritating 
 
 war 
 Of fighting winds, while all is calm 
 
 below, 
 
592 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 They furious spring. A boding si- 
 lence reigns, 
 Dread tlirougli tlie dun expanse ; save 
 
 the dull sound 
 That from the mountain, previous to 
 
 the storm. 
 Rolls o'er the muttering earth, dis- 
 turbs the flood, 
 And shakes the forest-leaf without a 
 
 breath. 
 Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial 
 
 tribes 
 Descend: the tempest-loving raven 
 
 scarce 
 Dares wing the dubious dusk. In 
 
 rueful gaze 
 The cattle stand, and on the scowling 
 
 heavens 
 Casta deploring eye; by man forsook. 
 Who to tlie crowded cottage hies him 
 
 fast. 
 Or seeks the shelter of the downwai'd 
 
 cave. 
 'Tis listening fear, and dumb 
 
 amazement all : 
 When to the startled eye the sudden 
 
 glance 
 Appears far south, eruptive through 
 
 the cloud ; 
 And following slower, in explosion 
 
 vast. 
 The thunder raises his tremendous 
 
 voice. 
 At first, heard solemn o'er the verge 
 
 of heaven. 
 The tempest growls ; but as it nearer 
 
 comes, 
 And rolls its awful burden on the 
 
 wind, 
 The lightnings flash a larger curve, 
 
 and more 
 The noise astounds: till overhead a 
 
 sheet 
 Of livid flame discloses wide, then 
 
 shuts, 
 And opens wider; shuts and opens 
 
 still 
 Expansive, wrapping ether in a 
 
 blaze. 
 Follows the loosened aggravated roar, 
 Enlarging, deepening, mingling, peal 
 
 on peal 
 Crushed horrible, convulsing heaven 
 
 and earth. 
 
 Down comes a deluge of sonorous 
 hail. 
 
 Or prone-desconding rain. Wide rent, 
 the clouds 
 
 Pour a whole flood ; and yet its flame 
 unquenched. 
 
 The unconquerable lightning strug- 
 gles through. 
 
 Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling 
 balls, 
 
 And fires the mountains with re- 
 doubled rage. 
 
 [From The StasonsJ] 
 HARVEST-TIME. 
 
 A SEEENER blue, 
 
 With golden light enlivened, wide 
 
 invests 
 The happy world. Attempered suns 
 
 arise. 
 Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft 
 
 through lucid clouds 
 A pleasing calm; while broad and 
 
 brown, below 
 Extensive harvests hang the heavy 
 
 head. 
 Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for 
 
 not a gale 
 Rolls its light billows o'er the bend- 
 ing plain: 
 A calm of ploity ! till the ruffled air 
 Falls from its poise, and gives the 
 
 breeze to blow. 
 Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky ; 
 The clouds fly different; and the 
 
 sudden sun 
 By fits effulgent gilds the illumined 
 
 field. 
 And black by fits the shadows sweep 
 
 along. 
 A gaily-chequered heart-expanding 
 
 view. 
 Far as the circling eye can shoot 
 
 around. 
 Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn. 
 These are thy blessings, industry! 
 
 rough power ! 
 Whom labor still attends, and sweat, 
 
 and pain ; 
 Yet the kind source of every gentle 
 
 art. 
 And all the soft civility of life. 
 
THOMSON. 
 
 598 
 
 [Frnm The Seasons.] 
 BIllDS, AND THEIR LOVES. 
 
 When first the soul of love is sent 
 abroad 
 
 Warm through the vital air, and on 
 the heart 
 
 Harmonious seizes, the gay troops 
 begin, 
 
 In gallant thought, to plume the 
 painted wing; 
 
 And try again the long-forgotten 
 strain. 
 
 At first faint-warbled. But no sooner 
 grows 
 
 The soft infusion prevalent, and wide, 
 
 Than, all alive, at once their joy o'er- 
 flows 
 
 In music uncoufined. Upsprings the 
 lark. 
 
 Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messen- 
 ger of morn ; 
 
 Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted 
 sings 
 
 Amid the dawning clouds, and from 
 their haunts 
 
 Calls up the tuneful nations. Every 
 copse 
 
 Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush 
 
 Bending with dewy moisture, o'er 
 the heads 
 
 Of the coy quiristers that lodgewithln. 
 
 Are prodigal of harmony. The 
 thrush 
 
 And wood-lark, o'er the kind-con- 
 tending throng 
 
 Superior heard, run through the 
 sweetest length 
 
 Of notes; when listening Philomela 
 deigns 
 
 To let them joy, and purposes, in 
 thought 
 
 Elate, to make her night excel their 
 day. 
 
 The blackbird whistles from (he 
 thorny brake; 
 
 The mellow bullfinch answers from 
 the grove : 
 
 Nor are the linnets, o'er the flower- 
 ing furze 
 
 Poured out profusely, silent. .Joined 
 to these 
 
 Innumerous songsters, in the fresh- 
 ening shade 
 
 Of new-sprung leaves their modula- 
 tions mix 
 
 Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the 
 daAv, 
 
 And each harsh pipe, discordant 
 heard alone. 
 
 Aid the full concert: while the stock- 
 dove breathes 
 
 A melancholy murnuu- through the 
 whole. 
 
 'Tis love creates their melody, and all 
 
 This waste of music is the voice of 
 love, 
 
 That even to birds, and beasts, the 
 tender arts 
 
 Of pleasing, teaches. Hence, the 
 glossy kind 
 
 Try every winning way inventive love 
 
 Can dictate, and in courtship to their 
 mates 
 
 Pour forth their little souls. First, 
 wide around. 
 
 With distant awe, in airy rings they 
 rove. 
 
 Endeavoring by a thousand tricks to 
 catch 
 
 The cunning, conscious, half-averted 
 glance 
 
 Of their regardless charmer. Should 
 she seem 
 
 Softening the least appro vance to be- 
 stow. 
 
 Their colors burnish, and by hojie 
 inspired, 
 
 They brisk advance; then, on a suil- 
 den struck. 
 
 Retire disordered; then again ap- 
 proach ; 
 
 In fond rotation spread the spotted 
 wing. 
 
 And shiver every feather with desire. 
 
 [From The Seafions.] 
 DEATH AMID THE SXOIVS. 
 
 Ai,i. Minter drives along the dark- 
 ened air: 
 
 In his own loose revolving fields, tlie 
 swain 
 
 Disastered stands; sees other hills 
 ascend. 
 
 Of unknown joyless brow; and other 
 scenes 
 
594 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless 
 
 plain ; 
 Nor finds the river, nor the forest, 
 
 hid 
 Beneath the formless wild; but wan- 
 ders on 
 From hill to dale, still more and 
 
 more astray ; 
 lmi)atient flouncing tln'ough the 
 
 drifted heaps, 
 Stung with the tlioughts of home; 
 
 the thoughts of home 
 Rush on his nerves, and call their 
 
 vigor fortli 
 In many a vain attempt. How sinks 
 
 his soul! 
 What black despaii', wliat horror fills 
 
 his heart! 
 When for the dusky spot, which 
 
 fancy feigned 
 His tufted cottage rising through the 
 
 snow, 
 He meets the roughness of the middle 
 
 waste. 
 Far from the track and blest abode 
 
 of man; 
 While round him night, resistless, 
 
 closes fast. 
 And every tempest, howling o'er his 
 
 head, [wild. 
 
 Renders the savage wilderness more 
 Then throng the busy shapes into 
 
 his mind, 
 Of covered pits, imfathomably deep, 
 A dire descent! beyond the power of 
 
 frost ; 
 Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge. 
 Smoothed up with snow; and, what 
 
 is land, unknown. 
 What water, of the still unfi-ozen 
 
 spring. 
 In the loose marsh or solitary lake. 
 Where the fresh fountain from the 
 
 bottom boils. 
 These check his fearful steps; and 
 
 down he sinks, 
 Beneath the shelter of the shapeless 
 
 drift. 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of 
 
 death ; 
 Mixed with the tender anguish na- 
 
 tiu'e shoots 
 Through the wrung bosom of the 
 
 dying man. 
 
 His wife, his children, and his friends 
 
 unseen. 
 In vain for him the officious wife 
 
 prepares 
 The fire fair-blazing, and the vest- 
 ment warm; 
 In vain his little children, peeping 
 
 out 
 Into the mingling storm, demand 
 
 their sire, 
 With tears of artless innocence. 
 
 Alas! 
 Nor wife, nor cliildren more shall he 
 
 behold. 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home. On 
 
 every nerve 
 The deadly winter seizes; shuts up 
 
 sense ; 
 And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping 
 
 cold. 
 Lays him along the snows, a stiffened 
 
 corse, 
 Stretched out, and bleaching in the 
 
 northern blast. 
 
 [FromLiU'i-fi/.l 
 
 IKDEPENDEXCE. 
 
 Hail! Independence, hail! Heav- 
 en's next best gift. 
 
 To that of life and an immortal 
 soul ! 
 
 The life of life! that to the banquet 
 high 
 
 And sober meal gives taste; to the 
 bowed roof 
 
 Fair-dreamed repose, and to the cot- 
 tage charms. 
 
 \From Libcrtij.] 
 A STATE'S NEED OF VIRTUE. 
 
 .... Virtue! without thee, 
 Theie is no ruling eye, no nerve, in 
 
 states ; 
 War has no vigor, and no safety, 
 
 peace : 
 E'en justice wai-ps to party, laws op- 
 
 l)ress. 
 Wide through the land their weak 
 
 protection fails. 
 First broke the balance, and then 
 
 scorned the sword. 
 
THOMSON. 
 
 ;)!);■) 
 
 [FroTn Liber-ti/.] 
 THE ZEAL OF J'EUSECUTION. 
 
 Mother of tortures! persecuting 
 
 Zeal, 
 High flashing in her hand the ready 
 
 torch, 
 Or poniard bathed in unbelieving 
 
 blood; 
 Hell's fiercest fiend! of saintly brow 
 
 demure. 
 Assuming a celestial serapli"s name. 
 While she beneath the blasphemous 
 
 pretence 
 Of pleasing Parent Heaven, the 
 
 Source of Love, 
 Has wrought more horrors, more 
 
 detested deeds, 
 Than all the rest combined ! 
 
 [ From Liberty.] 
 
 THE APOLLO, AND VENUS OF 
 MEDICI. 
 
 Ax.L conquest-flushed, from pros- 
 trate Python, came 
 
 The (luivered god. In graceful act 
 he stands. 
 
 His arm extended with the slackened 
 bow ; 
 
 Light flows his easy robe, and fair 
 displays 
 
 A manly softened form. The bloom 
 of gods 
 
 Seems youthful o'er the beardless 
 ciieek to wave: 
 
 His features yet. lieroic ardor warms; 
 
 And sweet subsiding to a native 
 smile. 
 
 Mixed with the joy elating conquest 
 gives, 
 
 A scattered frown exalts his match- 
 less air. 
 
 The Queen of Love arose, as from 
 
 the deep 
 .She sprung in all the melting pomp 
 
 of charms. 
 Bashful she bends, her well-taught 
 
 look aside 
 Turns in enchanting guise, where 
 
 dubious mix 
 
 Vain conscious beauty, a dissembled 
 
 sense 
 Of modest shame, and slippery looks 
 
 of love. 
 The gazer grows enamoured, and the 
 
 stone. 
 As if exulting in its conquest, smiles. 
 So turned each limb, so swelled with 
 
 softening art, 
 That the deluded eye the marble 
 
 doubts. 
 
 [From The Castle of Indolence.] 
 REPOSE. 
 
 What, what is virtue, but repose of 
 
 mind, 
 A pure ethereal calm, that knows ]io 
 
 storm ; 
 Above the reach of wild ambition's 
 
 wind. 
 Above those passions that this world 
 
 deform, 
 And torture man, a proud malignant 
 
 Avorm? 
 But here, instead, soft gales of pas- 
 sion play, 
 And gently stir the heart, thereby to 
 
 form 
 A quicker sense of joy; as breezes 
 
 stray 
 Across the enlivened skies, and make 
 
 them still more gay. 
 
 The best of men have ever loved re- 
 pose: 
 They hate to mingle in the filthy 
 
 fray. 
 Where the soul sours, and gradual 
 
 rancor grows. 
 Embittered more from peevish day to 
 
 day. 
 E'en those whom fame has lent her 
 
 fairest ray. 
 The most renowned of worthy wights 
 
 of yore, 
 From a base world at last have 
 
 stolen away: 
 So Scipio, to the soft Cuma^an shore 
 Retiring, tasted joy he never knew 
 
 before. 
 
596 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 [From The Castle of Indolence.] 
 THE POLL Y OF HOARDIXG. 
 
 On, grievous folly! to heap up estate, 
 Losing the days you see beneath the 
 
 sun ; 
 When, sudden, comes blind unrelent- 
 ing fate, 
 And gives the untasted portion you 
 
 have won 
 With ruthless toil, and many a wretch 
 
 undone. 
 To those who mock you, gone to 
 
 Pluto's reign. 
 There with sad ghosts to pine, and 
 
 shadows dun: 
 But sure it is of vanities most vain. 
 To toil for what you here untoiling 
 
 may obtain. 
 
 [From The Castle of Indolence.] 
 EXCESS TO BE AVOIDED. 
 
 Bi'T not e'en pleasvire to excess is 
 
 good : 
 What most elates, then sinks the 
 
 soul as low : 
 When springtide joy pours in with 
 
 copious tlooil. 
 The higher still the exulting billows 
 
 flow. 
 The further back again they flagging 
 
 go, 
 And leave us grovelling on the dreai-y 
 shore. 
 
 [From The Castle of Indolence.] 
 NATUnE'S JOY INALIENABLE. 
 
 I (ARE not, Fortxane, what you me 
 
 deny: 
 You cannot rob me of free Nature's 
 
 grace ; 
 You cannot shut the windows of the 
 
 sky. 
 Through which Aurora shows her 
 
 brightening face ; 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to 
 
 trace 
 
 The woods and lawns, by living 
 
 stream, at eve; 
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres 
 
 brace. 
 And I their toys to the great children 
 
 leave: 
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, nouglit can 
 
 me bereave. 
 
 [From The Castle of Indolence.] 
 
 THE STATE OF THE WORLD HAD 
 MEN LIVED AT EASE. 
 
 Had unambitious mortals minded 
 
 nought. 
 But in loose joy their time to wear 
 
 away ; 
 Had they alone the lap of dalliance 
 
 sought. 
 Pleased on her pillow their dull heads 
 
 to lay, 
 Rude nature's state had been our 
 
 state to-day; 
 No cities e'er their to wery fronts had 
 
 raised, 
 Xo arts had made us opulent and 
 
 gay; 
 
 With brother brutes the human race 
 
 had grazed ; 
 None e'er had soar'd to fame, none 
 
 honored been, none praised. 
 
 Great Homer's song had ne\er fired 
 
 the breast 
 To thirst of glory, and heroic 
 
 deeds; 
 Sweet Maro's muse, sunk in inglori- 
 ous rest. 
 Had silent slept amid the Mincian 
 
 reeds : 
 The wits of modern time had told 
 
 their beads. 
 The monkish legends been their only 
 
 strains; 
 Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in 
 
 weeds. 
 Our Shakespeare strolled and laughed 
 
 with Warwick swains, 
 Ne had my master Spenser charm'd 
 
 his Mulla's plains. 
 
THOMSON. 
 
 597 
 
 [From The Castle of Indolence.] 
 
 HEALTH NECESSARY TO HAPPY 
 LIFE. 
 
 All! what avail the largest gifts of 
 
 Heaven, 
 When drooping health and spirits go 
 
 amiss? 
 How tasteless then whatever can be 
 
 given? 
 Health is the vital principle of 
 
 bliss, 
 And exercise of health. In proof of 
 
 this. 
 Behold the wretch, who slugs his life 
 
 away. 
 Soon swallowed in disease's sad 
 
 abyss ; 
 Willie he whom toil has braced, or 
 
 manly play, 
 As light as air each limb, each thought 
 
 as clear as day. 
 
 Oh, who can speak the vigorous joys 
 
 of health ! 
 Unclogg'd the body, unobscured the 
 
 mind : 
 The morning rises gay, with pleasing 
 
 stealth. 
 The temperate evening falls serene 
 
 and kind. 
 In health the wiser brutes true glad- 
 ness find : 
 See! how the younglings frisk along 
 
 the meads. 
 As May conies on, and wakes the 
 
 balmy wind ; 
 Kampant with life, their joy all joy 
 
 exceeds ; 
 Yet what but high-strung health this 
 
 dancing pleasaunce breeds? 
 
 COXTEXTMF.XT. 
 
 If those, who live in shepherd's 
 bower. 
 Press not the rich and stately bed : 
 The new-mown hay and breathing 
 flower 
 A softer couch beneath them 
 spread. 
 
 If those, who sit at shepherd's board, 
 Soothe not their taste by wanton 
 art ; 
 
 They take what Nature's gifts afford. 
 And take it with a cheerful heart. 
 
 If those who drain the shepherd's 
 bowl. 
 No high and sparkling wines can 
 boast. 
 With wholesome cups they cheer the 
 soul. 
 And crown them with the village 
 toast. 
 
 If those who join in shepherd's sport. 
 Gay dancing on the daisied ground. 
 
 Have not the splendor of a court : 
 Yet love adorns the merry round. 
 
 RULE, BRITANXIA! 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's 
 command, 
 Arose from out the azure main. 
 This was the charter of the land, 
 And guardian angels sung this 
 strain: 
 Rule, Britannia, I'ule the 
 
 waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 The nations, not so blessed as thee. 
 Must, in their turns, to tyrants 
 fall; 
 While thou shalt flourish great and 
 free. 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 Ilule, etc. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise. 
 More dreadful from each foreign 
 stroke ; 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 Rule, etc. 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall 
 tame : 
 All their attempts to bend thee 
 down 
 
598 
 
 TIL TON. 
 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
 But work tlieir woe, and thy re- 
 nown. 
 Rule, etc. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign; 
 Thy cities shall with commerce 
 shine : 
 All thine shall be the subject main : 
 And every shore it circles thine. 
 Rule, etc. 
 
 The Muses, still with freedom found. 
 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair: 
 Blessed isle! with matchless beauty 
 crowned, 
 And manly hearts to guard the 
 fair: 
 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the 
 
 waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 Theodore Tilton. 
 
 [From Thou nml /.] 
 LOVE IN AGE. 
 
 For us, the almond-tree 
 
 Doth flourish now: 
 
 Its whitest bloom is on our brow. 
 
 Let others triumph as they may 
 
 And wear their garlands gay 
 
 Of olive, oak, or bay: 
 
 Our crown of glory is, instead, 
 
 The hoary head. 
 
 Our threescore years and ten. 
 That measure life to mortal men, 
 Have lingered to a longer length 
 By reason of oui- strength ; 
 Yet, like a tale that hath been told, 
 They all have passed, and now, be- 
 hold! 
 We verily are old ; — 
 
 Yea, old like Abraham, when he went, 
 
 AVith head down bent. 
 
 And mantle rent, 
 
 In dole for her who lay in death, 
 
 And to the Sons of Heth 
 
 The silver shekels gave 
 
 For Mamre's gloomy cave. 
 
 To be her grave; — 
 
 Or, older still, like him 
 Who, feeble not of limb, 
 With eyes not dim, 
 Upclimbed, with staff in hand. 
 To where Mount Nebo cleft the sky, 
 And looked and saw the Promised 
 Land 
 
 (Forbidden him from on high) 
 Till, with an unrecorded cry, 
 He laid him down to die. 
 
 So too, for us, the end is nigh. 
 Our mortal race is nearly run; 
 Our earthly toil is nearly done! 
 Ah, thou and I, 
 
 Who in tbe grave so soon shall lie, 
 Have little time to see the sun — 
 So little it is nearly none! 
 
 What then ? 
 
 Amen ! 
 
 All hail, my love, good cheer! 
 
 Keep back thy unshed tear! 
 
 Not thou nor I 
 
 Shall mourn or sigh. 
 
 Nay now, we twain — 
 
 Old man, olil wife. 
 
 The few days tliat remain — 
 
 Let us make merry — let us laugh ! — 
 
 For now at length we quaff 
 
 The last, best wine of life, — 
 
 The very last — the very best. 
 
 The double cup of love and rest. 
 
 What though the groaning world 
 
 declare 
 That life is but a load of care ? — 
 A burden wearisome to bear ? — 
 That as we journey down the years. 
 The path is through a vale of tears ? — 
 Yet we who have the burden borne, 
 And travelled until travel-worn, 
 Forget the weight upon the Ijack, 
 Forsret the lou'^ and wearv track, 
 
And sit remembering here to-day 
 How we were children at our play: — 
 
 And half in doze, at idle ease, 
 Before the hearth-tire's dying brands, 
 With elbows on our trembling knees, 
 With chin between our wrinkled 
 
 liands, 
 We sail unnavigable seas, — 
 We roam impenetrable lands, — 
 We leap from cUme to clime, — 
 We conquer space and time. 
 
 And, howsoever strange it seems, 
 
 The dearest of our drowsy dreams 
 
 Is of that billow-beaten shore 
 
 Where, in our childish days of yore. 
 
 We piled the salty sands 
 
 Into a palace that still stands ! — 
 
 Not where it first arose. 
 
 Not where the wild wind blows, 
 
 Not by the ocean's roar, — 
 
 (For, long ago, those turrets fell 
 
 Beneath that billowy swell), — 
 
 But. down within the heart's deep 
 
 core. 
 Our tumbled tower we oft restore 
 And ever build it o'er and o'er! 
 
 We have one palace more, — 
 
 Not made with hands, — 
 
 Nor liave our feet yet entered at its 
 
 door ! 
 It lieth not behind us, but before! 
 
 Dear love, our pilgrimage is thither 
 
 tending. 
 And there shall have its ending! 
 
 Ah, tbough the rapturous vision 
 Allures us to a Land Elysian. 
 Yet aged are our feet, and slow. 
 And not in haste to go. 
 
 Life still hath many joys to give, 
 Whereof tlie sweetest is — to live. 
 
 'I'ben fear we death ? Not so 1 
 Or do we tremble ? No! 
 Nor do we even grieve! 
 And yet a gentle sigh we heave. 
 And unto Him who fixes fate, — 
 Witbout whose sovereign leave, 
 
 Down-whispered from on high, 
 Not even the daisy dares to die, — 
 We, jointly, thou ami L 
 Implore a little longer date, — 
 A little term of kind reprieve, — 
 A little lease till by and by! 
 
 May it be Heaven's decree, — 
 
 Here, now, to tliee and me, — 
 
 That, for a season still, 
 
 Tiie eye shall not grow dim; 
 
 That, for a few more days. 
 
 The ear cease not to hear the hyiini 
 
 Which the tongue utters to His 
 
 praise ; 
 That, for a little while. 
 The heart faint not, nor fail; 
 For even the wintry sun is bright, 
 And clieering to our aged sight; 
 Yea. though the frosts prevail, 
 Yet even the icy air. 
 The frozen plain, the leafiess wood 
 fetill keep the earth as fresh and 
 
 fair 
 As when from Heaven, He called it 
 
 good ! 
 
 O final Summoner of the soul! 
 Grant, of thy pitying grace, 
 That, for a little longer space. 
 The pitcher at the foimtain's rim 
 Be shattered not, but still kept 
 
 whole, — 
 ytill overflowing at the brim! 
 If but a year, if but a day, 
 Thy lifted hand, O stay! 
 Loose Thou not yet, O Lord, 
 The silver cord ! 
 Bi'eak Thou not yet the golden 
 
 bowl ! 
 
 [From Thou and I.] 
 I'XDEU THE SOD. 
 
 " Thott and I!" 
 The voice no longer said; 
 BtU. two white stones, instead, 
 Above the twain, long dead. 
 Still utter, each to each. 
 The same familiar speech, 
 "Tliouand I!" — 
 
600 
 
 TIL TON. 
 
 Not spoken to the passer-by, 
 But just as if, beneath the grass. 
 Deep under foot of all who pass, 
 The sleeping dust should wake to say. 
 Each to its fellow-clay, 
 Each in the same old way, 
 "Thou and l!" 
 
 And each to either should reply, — 
 
 (Tomb munniu'ing unto tomb. 
 
 Stone answering unto stone, 
 
 Yet not with sound of human moan. 
 
 Nor breath of mortal sigh. 
 
 But voiceless as the dead's dumb 
 
 cry. ) — 
 "Thou and I!" 
 
 " The spirit and the body part, 
 Yet love abideth, heart to heart. 
 
 " O silent comrade of my rest. 
 With hands here crossed upon thy 
 
 breast, 
 I know thee who thou art! 
 
 marble brow. 
 
 Here pillowed next to mine, 
 
 1 know the soul divine 
 That tenanted thy shrine ! 
 
 " For, though above us, green and 
 high, 
 The yew-trees grow. 
 And churchyard ravens fly. 
 And mourners come and go. 
 Yet thou and I, 
 
 "Who dust to dust lie here below. 
 Still one another know! 
 
 " Yea, thee I know — it still is thou; 
 
 And me thou know'st — it still is I; 
 
 True lovers once, true lovers now! — 
 
 The same old vow. 
 
 The same old thrill, 
 
 The same old love between us still ! 
 
 " The gloomy grave hath frosts that 
 
 kill. 
 But love is chilled not with their 
 
 chill. 
 
 " Love's flame — 
 
 Consuming, iniconsumed — 
 
 In breasts that breathe — in hearts 
 
 entombed — 
 Is fed by life and death the same! 
 
 "Love's spark 
 
 Is brightest when lovt 
 
 ; house is dark! 
 
 ■' Love's shroud — 
 
 That wraps its bosom round — 
 
 Must crumble in the cliarnel ground, 
 
 Till all the long white winding-sheet 
 
 Shall drop to dust from head to feet: 
 
 But love's strong ccrd. 
 
 The eternal tie, 
 
 The immortal bond that binds 
 
 Love's twain immortal minds; — 
 
 This silken knot 
 
 Shall never I'ot — 
 
 Nor moulder in the mouldy mound — 
 
 Nor mildew — nor decay — 
 
 Nor fall apart — nor drop away — 
 
 Nor ever be unbound ! 
 
 " Love's dust. 
 
 Whatever grave it fill. 
 
 Though buried deep, is deathless still ! 
 
 Love hath no death, and cannot die! 
 
 This love is ours, as here we lie, — 
 
 Thou and I! " 
 
 THE FOUl! SEASOXS. 
 
 In the balmy April weather. 
 
 My love, you know. 
 
 When the corn began to grow, 
 What walks we took together. 
 What sighs we breathed together. 
 What vows we pledged together. 
 
 In the days of long ago! 
 
 In the golden summer weather, 
 
 My love, you know. 
 
 When the mowers went to mow. 
 What home we built together. 
 What babes we watched together, 
 W'hat plans we planned togetlier, 
 
 \Vhile the skies were all aglow ! 
 
 In the rainy autumn weather. 
 
 My love, you know. 
 
 When the winds began to blow. 
 What tears we shed together. 
 What mounds we heaped together. 
 What hopes we lost together, 
 
 When we laid our darlings low ! 
 
TIL TON. 
 
 In the wild and wintry weather. 
 
 My love, you know, 
 
 With our heads as white 
 snow, 
 What prayers we pray together. 
 What fears we share together. 
 What Heaven we seek together. 
 
 For our time has come to go! 
 
 Sin MAliMADUKE'S MUSINGS. 
 
 I WON a noble fame ; 
 
 But, with a sudden frown. 
 The people snatched my crown. 
 And, in the mire, trod down 
 
 My lofty name. 
 
 I bore a bounteous purse ; 
 And beggars by the way 
 Then blessed me, day by day : 
 But I, grown poor as they, 
 
 Have now tlieir curse. 
 
 I gained what men call friends : 
 But now their love is hate, 
 And I have learned, loo late. 
 How mated minds unmate, 
 
 And friendship ends. 
 
 I clasped a woman's breast, — 
 As if her heart, I knew. 
 Or fancied, would be true, — 
 Who proved, alas! she too! 
 
 False like the rest. 
 
 1 now am all bereft, — 
 
 As when some tower doth fall. 
 With battlement, and wall. 
 And gate, and bridge, and all,— 
 
 And nothing left. 
 
 But I account it worth 
 
 All pangs of fair hopes crossed - 
 All loves and honors lost, — 
 To gain the heavens, at cost 
 
 Of losing earth. 
 
 So, lest I be inclined 
 
 To render ill for ill, — 
 Henceforth in nie instil, 
 O God, a sweet good will 
 
 To all mankind. 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 The Temple of the Lord stood open 
 wide, 
 
 And worshippers went up from many 
 lands. 
 
 Who, kneeling at the altar, side by 
 side. 
 
 Made votive offerings with uplifted 
 hands. 
 
 Their gifts were gold, and frankin- 
 cense, and myrrh. 
 
 Then, with a lustrous gleam anil rap- 
 turous stir, 
 
 While all the people trembled and 
 turned pale. 
 
 There flew an angel to the altar-rail, 
 
 Who, with anointed eyes, keen to 
 discern. 
 
 Gazed, noting all the kneelers, m ho 
 they were. 
 
 And what was each one's tribute to 
 the Lord, — 
 
 And, gift for gift, with sudden, swift 
 return. 
 
 Bestowed on every suppliant his re- 
 ward. 
 
 O mocking recompense! To one, a 
 spear ! 
 
 To many, each a thorn! To some a 
 nail ! 
 
 To all, a cross! But unto none a 
 crown ! 
 
 At last, they saw the angel disappeai-. 
 Then, as their timid hearts shook oft" 
 
 their fear, 
 Some rose in anger, flung their treas- 
 ures down. 
 And cried, '"Such gifts from Heaven 
 
 as these, we spui'u ! 
 They are too cruel, and too keen to 
 
 bear ! 
 They arc too grievous for a human 
 
 breast ! 
 Heaven sends us heartache, misery, 
 
 and despair! 
 We knelt for blessing, but we rise un- 
 
 blest ! 
 If Heaven so mock us, Ave will cease 
 
 to pray!" 
 They left the altar, and they went 
 
 their way ; 
 But their blaspheming hearts were 
 
 then self-torn 
 
6(12 
 
 TRENCH. 
 
 Far more by pride, and heaven-defy- 
 ing scorn, 
 
 'I'lian pierced before by nail, or spear, 
 or tliorn I 
 
 A few (not many!) with their brows 
 
 down bent, 
 (Jave tlianivs for each sharp gift that 
 
 Heaven liad sent, — 
 And eacli embraced his separate pain 
 
 and sting. 
 As if it were some sweet and pleasant 
 
 thing, — 
 And each his cross, with joyful tears, 
 
 did take. 
 To bear it for the great Cross-bearer's 
 
 sake. 
 
 Then lo! as from the Temple forth 
 they went. 
 
 Their bleeding bosoms, though with 
 anguish rent. 
 
 Had, spite of all their pain ! — a sweet 
 content; 
 
 For on each brow, though not to mor- 
 tal sight. 
 
 The vanished angel left a croM-n of 
 light! 
 
 THE TWO LADDERS. 
 
 BKNioirn;() in my pilgrimage, — 
 alone, — 
 And footsore — (for the path to 
 heaven grew steep, ) — 
 I looked for Jacob's pillow of a stone. 
 In hope of Jacob's vision in my 
 sleep. 
 Then, in my dream, whereof 1 (piake 
 to tel'l,— 
 Not up from earth to heaven, but, 
 oh, sad sight! 
 The ladder was let down from earth 
 to hell !— 
 Whereon, ascending from the deep 
 
 abyss. 
 Came fiery spirits who, with dismal 
 hiss. 
 Made woeful clamor of their lost de- 
 light. 
 And stung my eyelids open, till, in 
 
 fright, 
 I caught my staff, and at the dead of 
 night, 
 I, who toward heaven and peace 
 
 had halted so. 
 AVas i!eet of foot to flee from hell 
 and woe! 
 
 Richard Chenevix Trench. 
 
 THliKE SONNETS ON PRAYER 
 
 liORD, what a change within us one 
 
 short hour 
 Spent in Thy presence will prevail to 
 
 make — 
 What heavy burdens from our bosoms 
 
 take. 
 What parched grounds refresh, as 
 
 with a shower! 
 We kneel, and all around us seems to 
 
 lower; 
 We rise, and all, the distant and the 
 
 near, 
 Stands forth in sunny outline, brave 
 
 and clear; 
 We kneel how weak, we rise how full 
 
 of power! 
 Why, therefore, should we do our- 
 selves this wrong, 
 
 Or others — that we are not always 
 
 strong; 
 That we are ever overborne with 
 
 care ; 
 That we should ever weak or heaiL- 
 
 less be. 
 Anxious or troubled, when with us is 
 
 prayer. 
 And joy, and strength, and courage, 
 
 aie with Thee ? 
 
 A GAIJDKN so well watered before 
 
 morn 
 Is hotly up, that not the swart sun's 
 
 blaze. 
 Down beating with unmitigated rays, 
 Nor arid winds from scorching places 
 
 borne, 
 
Shall quite prevail to make it bare 
 
 and shorn 
 Of its green beauty — shall not quite 
 
 prevail 
 That all its morning freshness sliall 
 
 exliale, 
 Till evening and the evening dews 
 
 return — 
 A blessing such as this our hearts 
 
 niight reap, 
 The freshness of the garden they 
 
 might share, 
 Through the long day a heavenly 
 
 freshness keep. 
 If, knowing how the day and the 
 
 day's glare 
 Must beat upon them, we would 
 
 largely steep 
 And water them betimes with dews 
 
 of prayer. 
 
 WiiKx hearts are full of yearning 
 
 tenderness. 
 For the loved absent, whom we can 
 
 not reach — 
 By deed or token, gesture or kind 
 
 speech. 
 The spirit's true affection to express; 
 When hearts are full of innermost 
 
 distress, |by, 
 
 And we are doomed to stand inactive 
 Watching the soul's or body's agony. 
 Which human effort helps not to 
 
 make less — 
 Then like a cup capacious to contain 
 The overflowings of the heart, is 
 
 prayer: 
 The longing of the soul is satisfied, 
 The keenest darts of anguish blunted 
 
 are; 
 And, tbough we can not cease to 
 
 yearn or grieve, 
 Yet we have learned in patience to 
 
 abide. 
 
 LOllI), MAXY TIMES I AM A irEAni'. 
 
 J^oRD, many times I am aweary 
 quite 
 Of mine own self, my sin, my 
 vanity — 
 Yet be not Thou, or 1 am lost out- 
 right,— 
 Weary of me. 
 
 And hate against myself I often bear. 
 And enter with myself in fierce 
 debate : 
 Take Thou my part against myself, 
 nor share 
 In that just hate! 
 
 Best friends might loathe us, if what 
 tilings perverse 
 We know of our own selves, they 
 also knew: 
 Lord, Holy One! if Thou who knuw- 
 est worse 
 Shouldst loathe us too ! 
 
 [From Lines to a Frietul.] 
 WEAK COXSOLA TIOX. 
 
 On, miserable comfort! Loss is loss, 
 And death is death; and after all is 
 
 done — 
 After the flowers are scattered on the 
 
 tomb, 
 After the singing of the sweetest 
 
 dirge — 
 The mourner, with his heart uncom- 
 
 forted, 
 Retm-ning to his solitary home. 
 Thinks with himself, if any one had 
 
 aught 
 Of stronger consolation, lie should 
 
 speak; 
 If not, 'twere best for ever to liold 
 
 peace. 
 And not to mock him with vain 
 
 words like these. 
 
 SADXESS BOnX OF BEAUTY. 
 
 All beautiful things bring sadness, 
 
 nor alone 
 Music, whereof that wisest poet 
 
 spake ; * 
 Because in us keen longings they 
 
 awake 
 After the good for which we pinc^ and 
 
 groan. 
 From which exiled we make continual 
 
 moan, 
 
 ♦ I am never merry when I hear sweet 
 
 music. — SHAKliSPKAKK. 
 
6U4 
 
 TRENCH. 
 
 Till once again we may our spirits 
 
 slake 
 At those clear streams, which man 
 
 did first forsake. 
 When he would dig for fountains of 
 
 liis own. 
 All beauty makes us sad, yet not in 
 
 vain — 
 For who would be ungracious to re- 
 fuse. 
 Or not to use, this sadness without 
 
 pain, 
 Whether it flows upon us from the 
 
 hues 
 Of sunset, from the time of stars 
 
 and dews, 
 From the clear sky, or waters pure of 
 
 stain '.' 
 
 THE LENT JEWELS. 
 
 In schools of wisdom all the day was 
 
 spent : 
 His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward 
 
 bent. 
 With homeward thoughts, which 
 
 dwelt upon the wife 
 And two fair child i-en who consoled 
 
 his life. 
 She, meeting at the thresliold, led 
 
 him in, 
 And with these words preventing, 
 
 did begin: — 
 " Ever rejoicing at your wished re- 
 turn. 
 Yet am 1 most so now: for since this 
 
 morn 
 1 liave been much perplexed and 
 
 sorely tried 
 Upon one point which you shall now 
 
 decide. 
 Some years ago, a friend into my 
 
 care 
 Some jewels gave — rich, precious 
 
 gems they were ; 
 But having given them in my cliarge. 
 
 this friend 
 Did afterward nor come for them, nor 
 
 send. 
 But left them in ray keeping for so 
 
 long. 
 That now it almost seems to me a 
 
 wrong 
 
 That he should suddenly arrive to- 
 day, 
 
 To take those jewels, which he left, 
 away. 
 
 What think you? Shall I freely 
 yield them back. 
 
 And with no murmuring ? — so hence- 
 forth to lack 
 
 Those gems myself, which I had 
 learned to see 
 
 Almost as mine for ever, mine in 
 fee." 
 
 "What question can be here? 
 Your own true heait 
 
 Must neeils advise you of the only 
 part : 
 
 That may be claimed again which 
 was but lent. 
 
 And should be yielded with no dis- 
 content. 
 
 Nor surely can we find herein a 
 wrong. 
 
 That it wasleft us to enjoy it long." 
 
 " Good is the word," she answered ; 
 
 " may we now 
 
 And evermore that it is good allow!" 
 
 And, rising, to an inner chamber led, 
 
 And thereshe showed him, stretched 
 
 upon one bed, 
 Two children pale: and he the jewels 
 
 knew, 
 AVhich God had lent him, and re- 
 sumed anew. 
 
 PA TIEXCE. 
 
 Be patient! oh, be patient! Put your 
 
 ear against the earth ; 
 Listen there how noiselessly the germ 
 
 o' tlie seed has birth — 
 How noiselessly and gently it up- 
 
 lieaves its little way. 
 Till it parts the scarcely broken 
 
 ground, and the blade stands 
 
 up in the day. 
 
 Be patient! oh, be patient! The 
 germs of mighty thought 
 
 Must have their silent imdergrowth, 
 must luiderground be wrought; 
 
TRENCH. 
 
 605 
 
 But as sure as there's a power that 
 makes the grass appear, 
 
 Our land shall he green with liberty, 
 the blade-time shall be here. 
 
 Be patient! oh, be patient — go and 
 
 watch the wheat ears grow — 
 So imperceptibly that ye can mark 
 
 nor change nor throe — 
 Day after day, day after day, till the 
 
 ear is fully grown, 
 And then again day after day, till the 
 
 ripened field is brown. 
 
 Be patient! oh, be patient! — though 
 
 yet our hopes are green, 
 The harvest-fields of freedom sliall 
 
 be crowned with sunny sheen. 
 Be ripening! be ripening! — mature 
 
 your silent way. 
 Till the whole broad land is tonguetl 
 
 with tire on freedom's harvest 
 
 day! 
 
 HAPPINESS IN LITTLE TIHXGS 
 OF THE PRESENT. 
 
 We live not in our moments or our 
 
 years : 
 The present we fling from us like the 
 
 rind 
 Of some sweet future, which we after 
 
 find 
 Bitter to taste, or bind that in with 
 
 fears. 
 And water it beforehand with our 
 
 tears — 
 Vain tears for that which never may 
 
 arrive ; 
 Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought 
 
 to live. 
 Neglected, or imheeded, disappears. 
 Wiser it were to welcome and make 
 
 ours 
 Whate'er of good, though small, the 
 
 present brings — 
 Kind greetings, sunshine, song of 
 
 birds, and flowers. 
 With a child's pure delight in little 
 
 things; 
 And of the griefs unborn to rest se- 
 cure. 
 Knowing that mercy ever will endure. 
 
 THE ERMINE. 
 
 To miry places me the hunters drive. 
 Where I my robes of purest white 
 must stain; 
 Then yield I, nor for life will longer 
 strive. 
 For spotless death, ere spotted life, 
 is gain. 
 
 THE BEES. 
 
 We light on fruits and flowers, and 
 purest things; 
 For if on carcases or aught vmclean. 
 When homeward we returned, with 
 mortal stings 
 Would slay us the keen watchers 
 round our queen. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Leaning my bosom on a pointetl 
 thorn, 
 I bleed, and bleeding sing my 
 sweetest strain: 
 For sweetest songs of saddest liearts 
 are born, 
 And who may here dissever love 
 and pain ? 
 
 THE SNAKE. 
 
 Myself I force some narrowest pas- 
 sage through, 
 Leaving my old and wrinkled skin 
 behind, 
 And issuing forth in splendor of my 
 new : 
 Hard entrance into life all creatures 
 find. 
 
 THE TIGER. 
 
 Hearing sweet music, as in fell de- 
 spite, 
 Himself the tiger doth in pieces 
 tear : 
 The melody of other men's delight 
 There are, alas! who can as "little 
 bear. 
 
6UG 
 
 TRENCH. 
 
 THE DIAMOND. 
 
 1 ONLY polished am in mine own 
 dust — 
 Naiiglit else against my hardness 
 will prevail: 
 And thou, O man, in thine own 
 sufferings must 
 He polished: every meaner art will 
 fail. 
 
 FALLING STAIiS. 
 
 Angels are we, that, once from 
 heaven exiled, 
 Would climb its crystal battlements 
 again; 
 But have their keen-eyed watchers 
 not beguiled. 
 Hurled by their glittering lances 
 back amain. 
 
 HA HMOS AS. 
 
 Now the third and fatal conflict for the Persian throne was done, 
 And the Moslem's fiery valor had the crowning victory won. 
 
 Ilarmosan, the last and boldest the invader to defy, 
 
 Captive overborne by numbers, they were bringing forth to die. 
 
 Then exclaimed that noble captive: "Lo! I perish in my thirst; 
 (iive me but one drink of water, and let then arrive the worst!" 
 
 In his hanil he took the goblet, but awhile the drauglit forbore. 
 Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foemen to explore. 
 
 Well might then have paused the bravest — for around him angry foes 
 With a hedge of naked v,eapons did that lonely man enclose. 
 
 "^ Ikit what fear'st thou ? " cried the caliph ; — "is it, friend, a secret blow ? 
 Fear it not! — our gallant Moslem no such treacherous dealing know. 
 
 " Tliou mayst quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before 
 Thou hast drunk that cup of water — this reprieve is thine — no more!" 
 
 C^uick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, 
 And the liquid sank for ever, lost amid the burning sand. 
 
 " Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup 
 
 I have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!" 
 
 For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred — 
 Then exclaimed : " For ever sacred nmst remain a monarch's word. 
 
 " Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: 
 Drink, I said before, and perish — now I bid thee drink and live!" 
 
TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 mi 
 
 John Townsend Trowbridge. 
 
 THE NAME /A' THE HAHK. 
 
 The self of so long ago, 
 
 And the self I struggle to know, — 
 I sometimes think we are two, — or are w« shadows of one ? 
 
 To-day the shadow 1 am 
 
 Keturns in the sweet summer calm 
 To trace where the earlier shadow flitted awhile in the sun. 
 
 Once more in the dewy morn 
 
 I came through the whispering corn ; 
 Cool to my fevered cheek soft breezy kisses were l)lo\vn; 
 
 The ribboned and tasselled grass 
 
 Leaned over the flattering glass, 
 And the sunny waters trilled the same low musical tone. 
 
 To the gray old birch I came, 
 
 Where 1 whittled my school-boy name: 
 The nimble squirrel once more ran skippingly over the rail, 
 
 The blackbirds down among 
 
 The alders noisily sung. 
 And under the blackberry-brier whistled the serious quail. 
 
 I came, remembering well 
 
 How my little shadow fell, 
 As 1 painfully reached and wrote to leave to the futiue a sign : 
 
 There, stooping a little, I found 
 
 A half-healed, curious wound. 
 An ancient scar in the bark, but no initial of mine! 
 
 Then the wise old boughs overhead 
 
 Took counsel together, and said, — 
 And the buzz of their leafy lips like a murmur of prophecy passed,- 
 
 " He is busily carving a name 
 
 In the tough old wrinkles of fame; 
 But, cut he as deep as he may, the lines will close over at last!" 
 
 Sadly I pondered awhile. 
 
 Then I lifted my soul with a smile. 
 And 1 said " Not cheerful men, but anxious children are we. 
 
 Still hurting ourselves with the knife. 
 
 As we toil kt the letters of life, 
 Just marring a little the rind, never piercing the heart of the tree." 
 
 And now by the rivulet's brink 
 
 I leisurely saunter, and think 
 How idle this strife will appear when circling ages have run, 
 
 If then the real I am 
 
 Descend from the heavenly calm. 
 To trace where the shadow I seem once flitted awhile in the sim. 
 
t)08 
 
 TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 THE RESTORED PICTURE. 
 
 In later years, veiling its iniblest face 
 
 In a most loatlisome place, 
 The cheap adornment of a house of 
 shame, 
 It hung, till, gnawed away 
 By tooth of slow decay, 
 It fell, and parted from its moulder- 
 ing frame. 
 
 The rotting canvas, faintly smiling 
 still. 
 From worldly puff and frill, 
 Its ghastly smile of coquetry and 
 pride, 
 Crumpling its faded charms 
 And yellow jewelled arms. 
 Mere rubbisli now, was rudely cast 
 aside. 
 
 The shadow of a Genius crossed the 
 gate: 
 He, slcilled to re-create 
 In old and ruined paintings their lost 
 soul 
 And beauty. — one who knew 
 Tlie Master's touch by true, 
 Swift instinct, as the needle Ivuows 
 the pole, — 
 
 Looked on it, and straightway his 
 searching eyes 
 Saw through its coarse disguise 
 Of vulgar paint and grime and var- 
 nish stain 
 The Art that slept beneath. — 
 A chrysalis in its sheath. 
 That waited to be waked to life 
 again. 
 
 Upon enduring canvas to renew 
 Each wondrous trait and hue, — 
 
 This is the miracle, his chosen task! 
 He bears it to his house. 
 And there from lips and brows 
 
 With loving touch removes their alien 
 mask. 
 
 For so on its perfection time had laid 
 
 An early mellowing shade; 
 Then hands unskilled," each seeking 
 to Impart 
 Fresh tints to form and face. 
 With some more modern grace, 
 Had buried quite the mighty Master's 
 Art. 
 
 First, razed from the divine original, 
 
 Brow, cheek, and lid, went all 
 That outer shape of worldliuess; 
 when, lo! 
 Beneath the varnished crust 
 Of long-embed.ded dust 
 A fairer face appears, emerging 
 slow, — 
 
 The features of a simple sliepherd- 
 ess! 
 Pure eyes, and golden tress. 
 And, lastly, crook in hand. But 
 deeper still 
 The Master's work lies hid; 
 And still through lip and lid 
 Works the Restorer with unsparing 
 skill. 
 
 Behold, at length, in tender light re- 
 vealed. 
 The soul so long concealed ! 
 All heavenly faint at first, then softly 
 bright. 
 As smiles the young-eyed Dawn 
 AVhen darkness is withdrawn, 
 A shining angel breaks upon the 
 sightl 
 
 Restored, perfected, after the divine 
 
 Imperishable design, 
 Lo, now! that once desi^ised and out- 
 cast thing 
 Holds its true place among 
 The fairest pictiu'es hung 
 In the higli palace of our Lord the 
 King! 
 
 M/OiriXTER. 
 
 The speckled sky is dim with snow. 
 The light Hakes falter and fall 
 slow; 
 Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale. 
 Silently drops a silvery veil; 
 And ail the valley is shut in 
 By flickering curtains gray and thin. 
 
 I watch the slow flakes as they fall 
 On bank and brier and broken wall; 
 Over the orchard, waste and brown. 
 All noiselessly they settle down, 
 
TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 609 
 
 Tipping the apple-boughs, and each 
 Light quivering twig of pUuu and 
 peach. 
 
 On turf and curb and bower-roof 
 Tlie snow storm spreads its ivory 
 
 woof; 
 It paves with pearl tlie garden walk; 
 And lovingly round tattered stalk 
 And shivering stem its magic weaves 
 A mantle fair as lily-leaves. 
 
 The hooded beehive, small and low. 
 Stands like a maiden in the snow; 
 And the old door-slab is half hid 
 Under an alabaster lid. 
 
 All day it snows : the sheeted post 
 Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; 
 All day the blasted oak has stood 
 A muffled wizard of the wood ; 
 (rarlantl and airy cap adorn 
 The sumach and the wayside thorn. 
 And clustering spangles lodge and 
 
 shine 
 In the dark tresses of the pine. 
 
 The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, 
 Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; 
 In surplice white the cedar stands, 
 And blesses him with priestly hands. 
 
 Still cheerily the chickadee 
 Singeth to me on fence and tree: 
 But in my inmost ear is heard 
 The nnisic of a holier bird; 
 And heavenly thoughts, as soft and 
 
 white 
 As snow-flakes, on my soul alight. 
 Clothing with love my lonely heart. 
 Healing with peace each bruised 
 
 part. 
 Till all my being seems to be 
 Transfigured by their purity. 
 
 MIDSUMMER. 
 
 Becalmed along the azure sky, 
 The argosies of cloudland lie, 
 Whose shores, with many a shining 
 
 rift, 
 Far off their jjearl-white peaks uplift. 
 
 Through all the long midsummer- 
 day 
 
 The meadow-sides are sweet with 
 bay. 
 
 I seek the coolest sheltered seat, 
 
 Just where the field and forest 
 meet, — 
 
 Where grow the pine-trees tall and 
 bland. 
 
 The ancient oaks austere and grand, 
 
 And fringy roots and pebbles fret 
 
 The ripples of the rivulet. 
 
 I watch the mowers, as they go 
 
 Through the tall grass, a white- 
 sleeved row. 
 
 With even stroke their scythes they 
 swing. 
 
 In tune their merry whetstones ring. 
 
 Behind the nimble youngsters run. 
 
 And toss the thick swaths in the sun. 
 
 The cattle graze, while, warm and 
 still. 
 
 Slopes the broad pasture, basks the 
 hill. 
 
 And bright, where summer breezes 
 break. 
 
 The green wheat crinkles like a lake. 
 
 The butterfly and bumble-bee 
 Come to the pleasant woods with me ; 
 Quickly before me runs the quail, 
 Iler chickens skulk behind the rail; 
 High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, 
 And the woodpecker pecks and flits. 
 Sweet woodland music sinks and 
 
 swells, 
 The brooklet rings its tinkling bells. 
 The swarming insects drone and 
 
 hum. 
 The partridge beats his throbbing 
 
 drum, 
 The squirrel leaps among the boughs, 
 And chatters in his leafy house. 
 The oriole flashes by ; and look ! 
 Into the mirror of the brook, 
 Where the vain bluebird trims his 
 
 coat. 
 Two tiny feathers fall and float. 
 
 As silently, as tenderly. 
 The down of peace descends on me. 
 O, tills is peace! I have no need 
 Of friend to talk, of book to read: 
 
610 
 
 TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 A dear Companion here abides ; 
 Close to my thrilling heart He hides ; 
 The holy silence is His Voice: 
 I lie and listen, and rejoice. 
 
 REAL ESTATE. 
 
 The pleasant gromids are greenly 
 
 turfed and graded ; 
 A sturdy porter waiteth at the 
 
 gate; 
 The graceful avenues, serenely 
 
 shaded. 
 And curving paths, are interlaced 
 
 and braiiled 
 In many a maze around my fair 
 
 estate. 
 
 Here bloom the early hyacinth, and 
 clover 
 And amaranth and myrtle wreathe 
 the ground ; 
 
 The pensive lily leans her pale cheek 
 over ; 
 
 And hither comes the bee, light- 
 hearted rover, 
 
 Wooing the sweet-breathed flowers 
 with soothing sound. 
 
 Entwining, in their manifold digres- 
 sions, 
 Lands of my neighbors, wind these 
 peaceful ways. 
 
 The masters, coming to their calm 
 possessions, 
 
 Followed in solemn state by long pro- 
 cessions, 
 Make quiet journeys these still 
 summer days. 
 
 This is my freehold! Elms and fringy 
 larches. 
 Maples and pines, and stately firs 
 of Norway, 
 
 Build round me tlieir green pyramids 
 and arches ; 
 
 Sweetly the robin sings, while slowly 
 marches 
 The stately pageant past my ver- 
 dant doorway. 
 
 Oh, sweetly sing the robin and the 
 
 sparrow ! 
 But the pale tenant very silent 
 
 rides. 
 A low green roof receiveth him; — so 
 
 narrow 
 His hollow tenement, a schoolboy's 
 
 arrow 
 Might span the space betwixt its 
 
 grassy sides. 
 
 The flowers around him ring their 
 wind-swung chalices, 
 A great bell tolls the pageant's slow 
 advance. 
 
 The poor alike, and lords of parks 
 and palaces. 
 
 From all their busy schemes, their 
 fears and fallacies. 
 Find here their rest and sure inher- 
 itance. 
 
 No more hath Caesar or Sardanapa- 
 
 lus! 
 Of all our wide dominions, soon or 
 
 late. 
 Only a fathom's space can aught 
 
 avail us; 
 This is the heritage that shall not 
 
 fail us: 
 Here man at last comes to his Real 
 
 Estate. 
 
 " Secure to him and to his heirs for- 
 ever" ! 
 Nor wealth nor want shall vex his 
 spirit more. 
 
 Treasures of hope and love and high 
 endeavor 
 
 Follow their blest proprietor; but 
 never 
 Could pomp or riches pass this lit- 
 tle door. 
 
 Flatterers attend him, but alone he 
 enters, — 
 Shakes off the dust of earth, no 
 more to roam. 
 
 His trial ended, sealed his soul's in- 
 dentures, 
 
 The wanderer, weai-y from his long 
 adventures. 
 Beholds the peace of his eternal 
 home. 
 
TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 611 
 
 Lo, more than life, Man's great Estate 
 comprises ! 
 Wliile for tlie eartlily corner of his 
 mansion 
 A little nook in shady Time suffices, 
 The rainbow-pillared heavenly roof 
 arises 
 Ethereal in limitless expansion! 
 
 THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUN- 
 TAIN. 
 
 All round the lake the wet woods 
 shake 
 From drooping boughs their show- 
 ers of pearl ; 
 From floating skiff to towering cliff 
 
 The rising vapors part and curl. 
 The west-wind stirs among the firs 
 High up the mountain side emerg- 
 ing: 
 The liglit illumes a thousand plumes 
 Through billowy banners round 
 them surging. 
 
 A glory smites the craggy heights : 
 
 And in a halo of the haze. 
 Flushed with faint gold, far up, behold 
 
 That mighty face, that stony gaze! 
 In the wild sky upborne so high 
 
 Above us perishable creatures, 
 Confronting Time witli those sub- 
 lime, 
 
 Impassive, adamantine, features. 
 
 Thou beaked and bald high front, 
 miscalled 
 The profile of a human face! 
 No kin art thou, O Titan brow. 
 
 To puny man's ephemeral race. 
 The groaning earth to thee gave 
 birth, — 
 Throes and convulsions of the 
 planet ; 
 Lonely uprose, in grand repose. 
 Those eighty feet of facial granite. 
 
 Here long, while vast, slow ages 
 passed. 
 Thine eyes (if eyes be thine) beheld 
 But solitudes of crags and woods. 
 Where eagles screamed and pan- 
 thers yelled. 
 
 Before the fires of our pale sires 
 In the first log-built cabin twinkled, 
 
 Or red men came for fish and game. 
 That scalp was scarred, that face 
 was wrinkled. 
 
 We may not know how long ago 
 That ancient countenance was 
 young; 
 Thy sovereign brow was seamed as 
 now 
 When Moses wrote and Homer 
 sung. 
 Empires and states it antedates, 
 And wars, and arts, and crime, and 
 glory ; 
 In that dim morn \^hen man was 
 born 
 Thy head with centuries was 
 hoary. 
 
 Thou lonely one ! nor frost, nor sun, 
 Nor tempest leaves on thee its 
 trace ; 
 The stormy years are but as tears 
 That pass from thy unchanging 
 face. 
 With unconcern as grand and stern. 
 Those features viewed, which now 
 survey us, 
 A green world rise from seas of ice. 
 And order come from mud and 
 chaos. 
 
 Canst thou not tell what then befell? 
 What forces moved, or fast or 
 slow ; 
 How grew the hills; what heats, what 
 chills, 
 What strange, dim life, so long ago? 
 High-visaged peak, wilt thou not 
 speak? 
 One word for all our learned wran- 
 gle! 
 What earthquakes shaped, what gla- 
 ciers scraped. 
 That nose, and gave the chin its 
 angle? 
 
 Our pygmy thought to thee is naught, 
 Our petty questionings are vain ; 
 
 In i^ts great trance thy countenance 
 Knows not compassion nor dis- 
 dain. 
 
612 
 
 TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 With far-off hum we go and come, 
 
 The gay, the grave, the busy-idle; 
 And all things done, to thee are one, 
 Ahke the burial and the bridal. 
 
 Thy permanence, long ages hence, 
 Will mock the pride of mortals 
 still. 
 Keturning springs, with songs and 
 wings I fill ; 
 
 And fragrance, shall these valleys 
 The free winds blow, fall rain or 
 snow. 
 The mountains brim their crystal 
 breakers ; 
 Still come and go, still ebb and flow. 
 The summer tides of pleasure-seek- 
 ers. 
 
 The dawns shall gild the peaks where 
 build 
 The eagles, many a future pair; 
 The gray scud lag on wood and crag, 
 
 Dissolving in the purple air; 
 The sunlight gleam on lake and 
 stream. 
 Boughs wave, storms break, and 
 still at even 
 All glorious hues the world suffuse. 
 Heaven mantle earth, earth melt in 
 heaven ! 
 
 Nations shall pass like summer's 
 grass, 
 And times unborn grow old and 
 change ; 
 New governments and great events 
 Shall rise, and science new and 
 strange ; 
 Yet will thy gaze confront the days 
 
 With its eternal calm and patience, 
 
 The evening red still light thy head. 
 
 Above tliee burn the constellations. 
 
 silent speech, that well can teach 
 The little worth of woi-ds or fame ! 
 
 1 go my way, but thou wilt stay 
 
 While future millions pass the 
 same: 
 But what is this I seem to miss ? 
 
 Those features fall into confusion ! 
 A further pace — where was that 
 face? 
 The veriest fugitive illusion ! 
 
 Gray eidolon ! so quickly gone. 
 When eyes that make thee onward 
 move; 
 Whose vast pretence of permanence 
 
 A little progress can disprove! 
 Like some huge wraith of human 
 faith 
 That to the mind takes form and 
 measure ; 
 Grim monolith of creed or myth. 
 Outlined against the eternal azure ! 
 
 O Titan, how dislimned art thou! 
 
 A withered cliff is all we see; 
 That giant nose, that grand repose, 
 
 Have in a moment ceased to be; 
 Or still depend on lines that blend, 
 
 On merging shapes, and sight, and 
 distance, 
 And in the mind alone can find 
 
 Imaginary brief existence ! 
 
 STANZAS FROM ''SERVICE." 
 
 Well might red shame my cheek 
 consume ! 
 
 service slighted! 
 
 Bride of Paradise, to whom 
 
 1 long was plighted ! 
 
 Do I with burning liiis profess 
 
 To serve thee wliolly, 
 Yet labor less for blessedness 
 
 Than fools for folly ? 
 
 Tbe wary worldling spread his toils 
 
 Whilst I was sleepin?; 
 The wakeful miser locked his spoils, 
 
 Keen vigils keeping: 
 
 1 loosed the latches of my soul 
 
 To pleading Pleasure, 
 Who stayed one little hour, and stole 
 My heavenly treasure. 
 
 A friend for friend's sake will endure 
 
 Sharp provocations ; 
 And knaves are cunning to secure, 
 
 By cringing patience, 
 And smiles upon a smarting cheek. 
 
 Some dear advantage. — 
 Swathing their grievances in meek 
 
 Submission's bandage. 
 
TROWBRIDOE. 
 
 613 
 
 Yet for thy sake I will not take 
 
 One drop of trial, 
 But raise rebellious hands to break 
 
 The bitter vial. 
 At hardship's surly-visaged churl 
 
 My spirit sallies; 
 And melts, O Peace! thy priceless 
 pearl 
 
 In passion's chalice. 
 
 Yet never quite, in darkest night, 
 
 Was I forsaken: 
 DowTi trickles still some starry rill 
 
 My heart to waken. 
 
 O Love Divine! could I resign 
 
 This changeful spirit 
 To walk thy ways, what wealth of 
 grace 
 
 Migiit I inherit ! 
 
 If one poor flower of thanks to thee 
 
 Be truly given. 
 All night thou snowest down to me 
 
 Lilies of heaven ! 
 One task of human love fulfilled 
 
 Thy glimpses tender, 
 My days of lonely labor gild, 
 
 With gleams of splendor! 
 
 MY COMRADE AXD I. 
 
 We two have grown up so divinely together, 
 
 Flower within flower from seed within seed, 
 The sagest philosopher cannot say whether 
 
 His being or mine was first called and decreed. 
 In the life before birth, by inscrutable ties. 
 
 We were linked each to each ; I am bound up in him ; 
 He sickens, I languish; without me, he dies; 
 
 I am life of his life, he is limb of my limb. 
 
 Twin babes from one cradle, I tottered about with him, 
 
 Chased the bright butterflies, singing, a boy with him; 
 Still as a man I am borne in and out with him. 
 
 Sup with him, sleep with him, suffer, enjoy with him. 
 Faithful companion, me long he has carried 
 
 Unseen in his bosom, a lamp to his feet; 
 More near than a bridegroom, to him I am married, 
 
 As light in the sunbeam is wedded to heat. 
 
 If my beam be withdrawn he is senseless and blind; 
 
 I am sight to his vision, I hear with his ears; 
 His the man^ellous brain, I the masterful mind; 
 
 I laugh with his laughter, and weep Avith his tears 
 So well that the ignorant deem us but one : 
 
 They see but one shape and they name us one name. 
 O pliant accomplice! what deeds we have done, 
 
 Thus banded together for glory or shame. 
 
 When evil waylays us, and i^assion surprises, 
 
 And we are too feeble to strive or to fly. 
 When hunger compels or when pleasure entices. 
 
 Which most is the sinner, my comrade or I ? 
 And when over perils and ]iains and temptations 
 
 I triumph, where still I should falter and faint. 
 But for him, iron-nerved for heroical patience. 
 
 Whose then is the virtue, and which is the saint ? 
 
614 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
 Am I the one sinner ? of honors sole claimant 
 
 For actions which only we two can perform '? 
 Am I the true creatui'e, and thou but the raiment '? 
 
 Thou magical luantle, all vital and warm, 
 Wrapped about me, a screen from the rough winds of Time, 
 
 (^f texture so flexile to feature and gesture ! 
 Can ever I part from thee ? Is there a clime 
 
 Where Life needeth not this terrestrial vesture '? 
 
 When comes the sad summons to sever the sweet 
 
 Subtle tie that unites us, and tremulous, fearful. 
 I feel thy loosed fetters depart from my feet; 
 
 \Vhen friends gather round us, pale-visaged and tearful, 
 Beweep and bewail thee, thou fair earthly prison! 
 
 And kiss thy cold doors, for thy inmate mistaken ; 
 Their eyes seeing not the freed captive, arisen 
 
 From thy trammels unclasped and thy shackles downshakeu; 
 
 Oh, then shall I linger, reluctant to break 
 
 The dear sensitive chains that about me have grown ? 
 
 And all this bright world, can I bear to forsake " 
 Its embosoming beauty and love, and alone 
 
 Journey on to I know not what regions untried ? 
 Exists there, beyond the dim cloud-rack of death. 
 
 Such life as enchants us ? O skies arched and wide! 
 
 delicate senses! O exquisite breath! 
 
 Ah, tenderly, tenderly over thee hovering, 
 
 1 shall look down on thee, empty and cloven. 
 Pale mould of my being! — thou visible covering 
 
 Wherefroni my invisible raiment is woven. 
 Though sad be the passage, nor i^ain shall appall me, 
 
 Nor parting, assured, wheresoever I range 
 The glad fields of existence that naught can befall me 
 
 That is not still beautiful, blessed and strange. 
 
 Martin Farquhar Tupper* 
 
 iFrom Self-Acqua in tan cr . ] 
 ILL-CHOSEN PURSUITS. 
 
 The blind at an easel, the palsied with a graver, the halt making for the goal, 
 
 The deaf ear tuning psaltery, the stammerer discoursing eloquence, — 
 
 What Avonder if all fail ? the shaft flieth wide of the mark. 
 
 Alike if itself be crooked, or the bow be strung awry; 
 
 And the mind which were excellent in one way, but foolishly toileth in 
 
 another, 
 What is it but aji ill-strung bow, and its aim a crooked arrow ? 
 By knowledge of self, thou provest thy powers; put not the racer to the 
 
 plough. 
 Nor goad the toilsome ox to wager his slowness with the fleet. 
 
 The extracts from this author are from Proverbial Philosophy. 
 
IFrom Fame.} 
 THE DIGNITY AND PATIENCE OF GENIUS. 
 
 A GREAT mind is an altar on a hill; should the priest descend from his 
 
 altitude 
 To canvass ott'erings and worship from dwellers on the plain ? 
 Eather with majestic perseverance, will he minister in solitary grandeur, 
 Confident the time will come when pilgrims shall be flocking to the shrine. 
 For fame is the birthright of genius ; and he recketh not how long it be 
 
 delayed : 
 The heir need not hasten to his heritage, when he knoweth that his tenure 
 
 is eternal. 
 The careless poet of Avon, was he troubled for his fame ? 
 Or the deep-mouthed chronicler of Paradise, heeded he the suffrage of his 
 
 equals '? 
 Majonides took no thought, committing all his honors to the future, 
 And Flaccus, standing on his watch-tower, spied the praise of ages. 
 
 [From Truth in Tliinga Fahe.] 
 • SPIRITUAL FEELEHS. 
 
 The soul hath its feelers, cobwebs floating on the wind. 
 That catch events in their approach with sure and apt presentiment, 
 So that some halo of attraction heraldeth a coming friend. 
 Investing, in his likeness, the stranger that passed on before; 
 And whUe the word is in thy mouth, behold thy word fulfilled, 
 And he of whom we spake can answer for himself. 
 
 \_From Writing.} 
 LETTERS. 
 
 TiiEiR preciousness in absence is proved by the desire of their presence: 
 
 When the despairing lover waiteth day after day, 
 
 Looking for a word in reply, one word writ by that hand. 
 
 And cursing bitterly the morn ushered in by blank disappointment: 
 
 Or when tlie long-looked-for answer argueth a cooling friend. 
 
 And the mind is plied suspiciously with dark inexplicable doubts, 
 
 While thy wounded heart counteth its imaginary scars. 
 
 And thou art the innocent and injured, that friend the capricious and in 
 
 fault: 
 Or when the earnest petition, that craveth for thy needs 
 Unheeded, yea, unopened, tortureth with starving delay: 
 Or when the silence of a son, who would have written of his welfare, 
 IJacketh a father's bosom with sharp-cutting fears: 
 For a letter, timely writ, is a rivet to the chain of affection; 
 And a letter, imtimely delayed, is as rust to the solder. 
 The pen, flowing in love, or tUpped black in hate, 
 Or tipped with delicate courtesies, or harshly edged with censure. 
 Hath (luickened more good than the sun, more evil than the sword, 
 More joy than woman's smile, more woe than frowning fortune; 
 And shouldst thou ask ray judgment of that which hath most profit in the 
 
 world, 
 For answer take thou this. The prudent penning of a letter. 
 
616 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
 [From Beauty. 1 
 THE CONQUEROR. 
 
 Thou mightier than Manoah's son, whence is thy great strength, 
 And wherein the secret of thy craft, O charmer charming wisely '? — 
 
 Ajax may ront a plialanx, but beauty sliall enslave him single-handed : 
 Pericles ruled Athens, yet is he the servant of Aspasia: 
 Light were the labor, and often-told the tale, to count the victories of 
 beauty, — 
 
 Learning sitteth at her feet, and Idleness laboreth to please her; 
 Folly hath flung aside his bells, and leaden Dulness gloweth ; 
 Prudence is rasli in her defence; Frugality filleth her witli riches; 
 Despair came to her for counsel; and Bereavement was glad when she 
 
 consoled ; 
 Justice putteth up his sword at the tear of supplicating beauty 
 And Mercy, with indulgent haste, hath pardoned beauty's sin. 
 For beauty is the substitute for all things, satisfying every absence, 
 The rich delirious cup, to make all else forgotten. , 
 
 \_From Beauty.] 
 ME NT A L S U PRE MA CY. 
 
 There is a beauty of the reason: grandly independent of externals. 
 
 It looketh from the windows of the house, shining in the man triumphant. 
 
 I have seen the broad blank face of some misshapen dwarf 
 
 Lit on a sudden as with glory, the brilliant light of mind: 
 
 Who then imagined him deformed ? intelligence is blazing on his forehead. 
 
 There is empire in his eye, and sweetness on his lip, and his brown cheek 
 
 glittereth Avith beauty: 
 And 1 have known some Nireus of the camp, a varnished paragon of 
 
 chamberers, 
 Fine, elegant, and shapely, moulded as the masterpiece of Phidias, — 
 Such an one, with intellects abased, have I noted crouching to the dwarf, 
 Whilst his lovers scorn the fool whose beauty hath departed! 
 
 [From Beauty.] 
 THE SOURCE OF MAN'S RULING PASSION. 
 
 Vepjly the fancy may be false, yet hath it met me in my musings, 
 
 (As expounding the pleasantness of pleasure, but no Avays extenuating 
 
 license,) 
 That even tliose yearnings after beauty, in wayward wanton youth. 
 When guileless of ulterior end, it craveth but to look upon the lovely, 
 Seem like struggles of the soul, dimly remembering pre-existence. 
 And feeling in its blindness for a long-lost god to satisfy its longing; 
 
 God, the undiluted good, is root and stock of beauty. 
 
 And every child of reason drew his essence from that stem. 
 
 Therefore, it is of intuition, an innate hankering for home, 
 
TUPPER. 
 
 617 
 
 A sweet returning to the well, from which our spirit flowed, 
 That we, unconscious of a cause, should bask these darkened souls 
 In some poor relics of the light that blazed in primal beauty. 
 
 Only, being burdened with the body, spiritual appetite is warped, 
 
 And sensual man, with taste corrupted, driuketh of .pollutions: 
 
 Impulse is left, but indiscriminate; his hunger feasteth upon carrion; 
 
 His natural love of beauty doteth over beauty in decay. 
 
 He still thirsteth for the beautiful ; but his delicate ideal hath grown gross. 
 
 And the very sense of thirst hath been fevered from affection into passion.' 
 
 iFrom Indirect Influences.] 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The weakness of accident is strong, where the strength of design is weak, 
 And a casual analogy convinceth, when a mind beareth not argument. 
 Will not a man listen ? be silent; and prove thy maxim by example: 
 Never fear, thou losest not thy hold, though thy mouth doth not render a 
 
 reason. 
 Contend not in wisdom with a fool, for thy sense maketh much of his 
 
 conceit, 
 And some errors never would have thriven, had it not been for learned 
 
 refutation ; 
 Yea, much evil hath been caused by an honest wrestler for truth. 
 And much of unconscious good, by the man that hated wisdom: 
 For the intellect judgeth closely, and if thou overstep thy argument, 
 Or seem not consistent with thyself, or fail in thy direct purpose. 
 The mind that went along with thee, shall stop and return without thee, 
 And thou shall have raised a foe, where thou mightest have won a friend. 
 
 [From Indirect Influences.'] 
 THE POWER OF SUGGESTION. 
 
 HiifTS, shrewdly strown, mightily disturb the spirit. 
 
 Where a barefaced accusation would be too ridiculous for calumny : 
 
 The sly suggestion touches nerves, and nerves contract the fronds. 
 
 And the sensitive mimosa of affection trembleth to its root; 
 
 And friendships, the growth of half a century, those oaks that laugh at 
 
 storms, 
 Have been cankered in a night by a worm, even as the prophet's gourd. 
 Hast thou loved, and not known jealousy ? for a sidelong look 
 Can please or pain thy heart more than the nudtitude of proofs : 
 Hast thou hated, and not learned that thy silcMit scorn 
 Doth deeper aggravate thy foe than loud-cursing malice ? — 
 
 Thinkest thou the thousand eyes that shine with rapture on a ruin, 
 Would have looked with half their wonder on the perfect pile ? 
 And wherefore not — but that light hints, suggesting unseen beauties 
 Fill the complacent gazer with self-grown conceits ? 
 
618 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
 And so, tlie rapid sketch winneth more praise to the painter. 
 
 Than tlie consummate work elaborated on his easel : 
 
 And so. the Helvetic lion caverned in the living rock 
 
 Hath more of majesty and force, than if upon a marble pedestal. 
 
 . . . . What hath charmed thine ear in music ? 
 
 Is it the labored theme, the curious fugue or cento. — 
 
 Nor rather the sparkles of intelligence flashing from some strange note 
 
 Or the soft melody of sounds far sweeter for simplicity ? 
 
 . . . . What hath filled thy mind in reading? 
 
 Is it the volume of detail, where all is orderly set down, 
 
 And they that read may run. nor need to stop and think; 
 
 The book carefully accurate, that counteth thee no better than a fool, 
 
 Gorging the passive mind with annotated notes; — 
 
 iS'or rather the half-suggested thoughts, the riddles thou mayest solve; 
 
 The light analogy, or deep allusion, trusted to thy learning. 
 
 The confidence implied in thy skill to unravel meaning mysteries ? 
 
 For ideas are ofttimes shy of the close furniture of words. 
 
 And thought, wherein only is power, may be best conveyed by a suggestion. 
 
 The flash that lighteth up a valley, ainid the dark midnight of a storm, 
 
 Coineth the mind with that scene sharper than fifty summers. 
 
 [From Names.'\ 
 ILL-CHRISTENED. 
 
 Who would call the tench a whale, or style a torch, Orion ? 
 
 Yet many a silly jjarent hath dealt likewise with his nursling. 
 
 Give thy child a fit distinguishment, making him sole tenant of a name. 
 
 For it were sore hindrance to hold It in common with a hundred; 
 
 In the Uabel of confused identities fame is little feasible, 
 
 The felon shall detract from the philanthropist, and the sage share honors 
 
 with the simple: 
 Still, in thy title of distinguishment, fall not into arrogant assumption. 
 Steering from caprice and affectations ; and for all thou doest have a reason. 
 He that is ambitious for his son. should give him untried names. 
 For those tliat have served other men. haply may injure by their evils; 
 Or otherwise may hinder by their glories; therefore set him by himself. 
 To win for his individual name some clear specific praise. 
 There were nine Homers, all goodly sons of song; but where is any record 
 
 of the eight ? 
 One grew to fame, an Aaron's rod. and swallowed up his brethren. 
 Who knoweth ? more distinctly titled, those dead eight had lived; 
 
 Art thou named of a family, the same in successive generations ? 
 
 It is open to thee still to earn for epithets, such an one. the good or great. 
 
 Art thou named foolishly ? show that thou art wiser than thy fathers. 
 
 Live to shame their vanity or sin by dutiful devotion to thy sphere. 
 
 Art thou named discreetly ? it is well, the course is free; 
 
 No competitor shall claim thy colors, neither fix his faults upon thee: 
 
 Hasten to the goal of fame between the posts of duty. 
 
 And win a blessing from the world, that men may love thy name ; 
 
TUPPER. 
 
 619 
 
 [From Indirect Influences.'] 
 THE FORCE OF TRIFLES. 
 
 A SENTENCE hath formed a character, and a character subdued a kingdom ; 
 A picture liatli ruined souls, or raised them to commerce with the sivies. 
 
 Planets govern not the soul, nor guide the destinies of man. 
 
 But trifles, lighter than straws, are levers in the building up of character. 
 
 [From y< gleet.] 
 TO MURMURERS. 
 
 Yet once more, griever at Neglect, hear me to thy comfort, or rebuke ; 
 For, after all thy just complaint, the world is full of love. 
 
 For human benevolence is large, though many matters dwarf it, 
 Prudence, ignorance, imposture, and the straitenings of circumstance and 
 
 time. 
 And if to the body, so to the mind, the mass of men are generous: 
 Their estimate who know us best, is seldom seen to err: 
 Be sure the fault is thine, as pride, or shallowness, or vanity, 
 If all around thee, good and bad, neglect thy seeming merit. 
 
 Therefore examine thy state, O self-accoimted martyr of Neglect, 
 It may be, thy merit is a cubit, and thy measure thereof a furlong: 
 But grant it greater than thy thoughts, and grant that men thy fellows 
 For pleasure," business, or interest, misuse, forget, neglect thee, — 
 Still be thou conqueror in tliis, the consciousness of higli deservings; 
 Let it suffice tliee to be worthy ; faint not thou for praise ; 
 For that thou art, be grateful; go humbly even In thy confidence; 
 And set thy foot on the neck of an enemy so harmless as Neglect. 
 
 [From Memory.] 
 HINTS OF PRE-EXISTEXCE. 
 
 Weke I at Petra, could I not declare. My soul hath been here before me ? 
 Am I strange to the columned halls, the calm dead grandeur of Palmyra ? 
 Know I not thy mount, O Carmel ! Have I not voyaged on the Danube 
 Nor seen the glare of Arctic snows, — nor the black tents of the Tartar ? 
 Is it then a dream, that I remember the faces of them of old ? 
 
 Be ye my judges, imaginative minds, full-fledged to soar into tlie sun, 
 Whose grosser natural thoughts the chemistry of wisdom hath sublimed, 
 Have ye not confessed to a feeling, a consciousness, strange and vague, 
 That ye have gone this way before, and walk again your daily life, 
 Tracking an old routine, and on some foreign strand, 
 Where bodily ye have never stood, finding your own footsteps ? 
 Hath not at times some recent friend looked out an old familiar. 
 Some newest circumstance or place teemed as with ancient memories ? 
 A startling sudden flash lighteth up all for an instant. 
 
 And then it is quenched, as in darkness, and leaveth the cold spirit 
 tremblinj: 
 
620 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
 [From Neglect.'] 
 LATE VALUATION. 
 
 Good men are the health of the world, valued only when it perishetli; 
 
 Like water, light, and air, all precious in their absence. 
 
 AVho hath considered the blessing of his breath, till the poison of an asthma 
 
 struclv him ? 
 Who hath regarded the just pulses of his heart, till spasm or paralysis 
 
 have stopped them ? 
 Even thus, an unobserved routine of daily grace and wisdom, 
 When no more here, had worship of a world, whose penitence atoned for 
 
 its neglect. 
 
 [ From Mystery.'] 
 FOREKNOWLEDGE UNDESIRABLE. 
 
 For mystery is man's life; we wake to the whisperings of novelty: 
 And what tliough we lie down disappointed ? we sleep, to wake in hope. 
 The letter, or the news, the chances and the changes, matters that may 
 
 happen. 
 Sweeten or embitter daily life with the honey-gall of mystery. 
 For we walk blindfold, — and a minute may be much, — a step may reach 
 
 the precipice ; 
 What earthly loss, what heavenly gain, may not this day produce ? 
 Levelled of Alps and Andes, without its valleys and ravines, 
 How dull the face of earth, imfeatured of both beauty and sublimity: 
 And so, shorn of mystery, beggared in its hopes and fears. 
 How flat the prospect of existence, mapped by intuitive foreknowledge ? 
 
 [From To-Day.] 
 LIFE. 
 
 A man's life is a tower, with a staircase of many steps. 
 
 That, as he toileth upward, crumble successively behind him : 
 
 No going back, the past is an abyss; no stopping, for the present perisheth; 
 
 But ever hasting on, precarious on the foothold of To-day. 
 
 [From To-Moi-roir.] 
 THE WORD OF BANE AND BLESSING. 
 
 Oftkn, the painful present is comforted by flattering the future. 
 
 And kind To-morrow beareth half the burdens of To-day. 
 
 To-morrow, whispereth weakness ; and To-morrow findeth him the weaker. 
 
 To-morrow, promiseth conscience; and behold, no to-day for a fulfilment. 
 
 O name of hapj^y omen unto youth, O bitter word of terror to the dotard, 
 
 Goal of folly's lazy wish, and sorrow's ever-coming friend. 
 
 Fraud's loophole, — caution's hint, — and trap to catch the honest, — 
 
 Thou wealth to many poor, disgrace to many noble. 
 
 Thou hope and fear, thou weal and woe, thou remedy, thou ruin. 
 
 How thickly swarms of thought are clustering round To-morrow. 
 
\^From To-Morrou\] 
 PROCllAS TINA TION. 
 
 Lo, it is tlie even of To-day, —a clay so lately a To-morrow; 
 
 Where are those high resolves, those hopes of yesternight ? 
 
 O faint heart, still shall thy whisper be. To-morrow, 
 
 And mnst the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy slope ? 
 
 Alas, it is ponderous, and moving on in might, that a Sisyphus may not 
 
 stop it ; 
 But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength To-day. 
 
 Henry Vaughan. 
 
 THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. 
 
 Deapv, secret greenness ! nurst below! 
 Tempests and winds and winter- 
 nights 
 Vex not, tliat but One sees thee grow. 
 That One made all these lesser 
 lights. 
 
 If those bright joys He singly sheds 
 
 On thee, were all met in one crown. 
 
 Both sun and stars would hide their 
 
 heads ; 
 
 And moons, though full, would get 
 
 them down. 
 
 Let glory be their bait whose minds 
 
 Are all too high for a low cell: 
 Though hawks can prey through 
 storms and winds. 
 The poor bee in her hive must 
 dwell. 
 
 Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still 
 To what most takes them is a 
 drudge ; 
 
 And they too oft take good for ill. 
 And thriving vice for virtue judge. 
 
 What needs a conscience calm and 
 bright 
 Within itself an outward test ? 
 Who breaks his glass to take more 
 light, 
 Makes way for storms into his rest. 
 
 Then bless thy secret growth, nor 
 catch 
 At noise, but thrive unseen and 
 dumb ; 
 Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and 
 watch. 
 Till the white-winged reapers come ! 
 
 THEY ARE ALL GONE. 
 
 They are all gone into the world of 
 light. 
 
 And i alone sit lingering here ! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy 
 breast, 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
 Or those faint beams in which this 
 hill is drest 
 After the sun's remove. 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glory, 
 Whose light doth trample on my 
 days ; 
 My days, winch are at best but dull 
 and hoary. 
 Mere glimmering and decays. 
 
 O holy hope ! and high humility ! 
 
 High as the heavens above ! 
 These are your walks, and you have 
 shewed them me 
 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
Dear, beauteous death ; the jewel of 
 the just! 
 Shining nowliere but in the dark ; 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy 
 dust, 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledged 
 bird's nest may know 
 At first sight if tbe bird be flown ; 
 But wliat fair dell or grove he sings 
 in now, 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 And yet, as angels in some brighter 
 dreams, 
 Call to the soul when man doth 
 sleep, 
 So some strange thoughts transcend 
 our wonted themes. 
 And into glory peep. 
 
 FROM '■'CHILDHOOD." 
 
 Deak, harmless age! the short, swift 
 span. 
 
 Where weeping virtue parts with 
 man ; 
 
 Where love without kist dwells, and 
 bends 
 
 AVhat way we please without self- 
 ends. 
 
 An age of mysteries ! which he 
 Must live twice that would God's face 
 
 see; 
 Which angels guard, and with it play. 
 Angels ! which foul men drive away. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 My soul, there is a country 
 
 Afar beyond the stars. 
 Where stands a winged sentry 
 
 All skilful in the wars. 
 There, above noise and danger. 
 
 Sweet Peace sits, crowned 
 smiles, 
 And one born in a manger 
 
 Commands the beauteous files 
 
 with 
 
 He is thy gracious friend, 
 
 And (O my soul, awake) 
 Cid in pure love descend. 
 
 To die here for thy sake. 
 If thou canst get but thither, 
 
 There grows the flower of peace, 
 The rose that cannot wither. 
 
 The fortress, and thy ease. 
 Leave, then, thy foolish ranges; 
 
 For none can thee secure 
 But One, who never changes, 
 
 Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure. 
 
 THE PUIiSVir. 
 
 Lord ! what a busy, restless thing, 
 
 Hast thou made man ! 
 Each day and hour lie is on wing. 
 
 Rests not a span. 
 Then having lost the sun and light, 
 
 By clouds surprised. 
 He keeps a commerce in the night 
 
 With air disguised. 
 Hadst thou given to this active dust 
 
 A state untired. 
 The lost son had not left the husk, 
 
 Nor home desird. 
 That was thy secret, and it is 
 
 Thy mercy too ; 
 For when all fails to bring to bliss. 
 
 Then this must do. 
 Ah, Lord! and what a purchase will 
 
 that be, 
 To take us sick, that sound would not 
 take thee ! 
 
 FROM "ST. MAlir MAGDALEN." 
 
 Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, 
 Who loved much, and much more 
 
 could move ; 
 Her art ! whose memory must last 
 Till truth tlu-ougli all" the Avorld be 
 
 jjast ; 
 Till his abused, despised flame 
 Return to heaven from whence it 
 
 came, 
 And send a fire down, that shall 
 
 bring 
 Destruction on his ruddy wing. 
 
Her art! whose pensive, weejjing 
 
 eyes 
 Were ouce sin's loose and tempting 
 
 spies ; 
 But now are fixed stars, Avliose light 
 Helps such dark stragglers to their 
 
 sight. 
 
 Self-boasting Pharisee ! how blind 
 A judge wert thou, anil how unkind I 
 It was impossible, that thou, 
 Who wert all false, should' st true 
 
 grief know. 
 Is't just to jvidge her faithful tears 
 By that foul rlieum thy false eye 
 
 wears ? 
 " This woman,"' say'st thou, " is a 
 
 sinner!" 
 And sate there none such at thy din- 
 ner ■? 
 Go, leper, go ! wash till thy flesh 
 Comes like a child's, spotless and 
 
 fresh ; 
 He is still leprous that still paints: 
 Who saint themselves, they are no 
 saints. 
 
 FROM THE " CHRISTIAX POLITICIAN.- 
 
 Come, then, rare politicians of the 
 
 time. 
 Brains of some standing, elders in our 
 
 clime, 
 See here the method. A wise, solid 
 
 state 
 Is quick in acting, friendly in debate. 
 Joint in advice, in resolutions just. 
 Mild in success, true to the common 
 
 trust. 
 It cements ruptures, and by gentle 
 
 hand 
 Allays the heat and burnings of a 
 
 land. [tract 
 
 Eeligion guides it; and in all the 
 Designs so twist, that Heaven con- 
 firms the act. 
 If from these lists you Avander, as 
 
 you steer, 
 Look back, and catechize your actions 
 
 here. 
 These are the marks to which true 
 
 statesmen tend, 
 And greatness here with goodness 
 
 hath one end. 
 
 PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Sacred and secret hand ! 
 By whose assisting, swift command 
 The angel shewed that holy well. 
 Which freed poor Ilagar from her 
 
 fears, 
 And turn'd to smiles the begging 
 tears 
 Of young, distressed Ishmad. 
 
 How, in a mystic cloud 
 AYhich doth thy strange, sure mercies 
 
 shroud, 
 Dost thou convey man food and 
 money. 
 Unseen by him till they arrive 
 Just at his mouth, that thankless 
 hive. 
 Which kills thy bees, and eats thy 
 honey ! 
 
 If I thy servant be. 
 Whose service makes even captives 
 
 free, 
 A fish shall all my tribute pay. 
 The swift-winged raven shall bring 
 
 me meat. 
 And 1 like flowers shall still go 
 neat. 
 As if I knew no month but May. 
 
 I will not fear what man, 
 With all his idiots and power, can. 
 Bags that wax old may plundered be; 
 But none can sequester or let 
 A state that with the siui doth set. 
 And comes next morning fresh as he. 
 
 Poor birds this doctrine sing. 
 And herbs which on dry hills do 
 
 spring. 
 Or in the howling wilderness 
 
 Do know thy dewy morning hours. 
 And watch all night for mists or 
 showers. 
 Then drink and praise thy bounteous- 
 ness. 
 
 May he for ever die 
 Who trusts not thee ! but wretchedly 
 Hunts gold and wealth, and will not 
 lend 
 Thy service nor his soul one day! 
 
May his crown, like his hopes be 
 clay; 
 And, what he saves, may his foes 
 spend ! 
 
 If all my portion here, 
 The measure given by thee each year, 
 Were by my causeless enemies 
 Usurped, it never should me grieve 
 Who know how well thou canst 
 relieve 
 Whose hands are open as thine eyes. 
 
 Great King of love and truth ! 
 Who would' St not hate my froward 
 
 youth. 
 And wilt not leave me when grown 
 old; 
 Gladly Mill I, like Pontic sheep, 
 Unto my wormwood diet keep, 
 Since thou hast made thy arm my 
 fold. 
 
 SUNDAYS. 
 
 Bright shadows of true rest! some 
 
 shoots of bliss; 
 
 Heaven once a week ; 
 The next world's gladness prepossest 
 
 in this ; 
 
 A day to seek; 
 Eternity in time; the steps by which 
 We climb above all ages; lamps that 
 
 light 
 Man through his heap of dark days ; 
 
 and the rich 
 And full redemption of the whole 
 
 week's flight! 
 
 The pulleys unto headlong man ; 
 time's bower; 
 The narrow way; 
 
 Transplanted Paradise; God's walk- 
 ing-hour; 
 The cool o'th' day! 
 
 The creature's jubilee; God's parle 
 with dust; 
 
 Heaven here; man on those hills of 
 mirth and flowers; 
 
 Angels descending; the returns of 
 trust ; 
 
 A gleam of glory after six-days- 
 showers ! 
 
 The church's love-feasts; time's pre- 
 rogative. 
 And interest 
 
 Deducted from the whole ; the combs 
 and hive, 
 And home of rest ; 
 
 The milky way chalked out with 
 suns ; a clue. 
 
 That guides through erring hours; 
 and in full story 
 
 A taste of heaven on earth; the 
 pledge and cue 
 
 Of a full feast ; and the out-courts of 
 glory. 
 
 THE SHOWER. 
 
 Waters above ! eternal springs ! 
 
 The dew that silvers the Dove's 
 wings ! 
 
 O welcome, welcome, to the sad! 
 
 Give dry dust drink, drink that 
 makes glad. 
 
 Many fair evenings, many flowers 
 
 Sweetened with rich and gentle show- 
 ers. 
 
 Have I enjoyed ; and down have run 
 
 Many a line and shining suii; 
 
 But never, till this happy hour. 
 
 Was blest with sucli an evening 
 shower ! 
 
 FROM ''RULES AND LESSONS." 
 
 When first thy eyes imveil, give thy 
 
 soul leave 
 To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 
 The spirit's duty. True hearts spread 
 
 and heave 
 Unto their God, as flowers do to the 
 
 sun. 
 Give him thy first thoughts then; 
 
 so shalt thou keep 
 Him company all day, and in him 
 
 sleep. 
 
 Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer 
 
 should 
 Dawn with the day. There are set, 
 
 awful hours 
 'Twixt heaven and us. The manna 
 
 was not good 
 
VAUGHAN. 
 
 6-25 
 
 After sun-rising ; far-day sullies 
 
 flowers. 
 Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth 
 
 sins glut, 
 And lieaven's gate opens when this 
 
 world's is shut. 
 
 Serve God hefore the Avorld ; let him 
 not go. 
 
 Until thou hast a blessing; then re- 
 sign 
 
 The whole unto him; and remember 
 who 
 
 Prevail' d by wrestling ere the sun 
 did shine. 
 Pour oil upon the stones; weep for 
 
 thy sin ; 
 Then journey on, and have an eye 
 to heaven. 
 
 When the world's up, and every 
 
 swarm abroad, 
 Keep thou thy temper; mix not with 
 
 each clay; 
 Dispatch necessities ; life hath a load 
 Which must be carried on, and safely 
 
 may, 
 Yet keep those cares Mithout thee, 
 
 let the heart 
 Be God's alone, and choose the 
 
 better part. 
 
 To God, thy country, and thy friend 
 be true ; 
 
 If priest and people change, keep 
 thou thy ground. 
 
 Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; 
 
 \nd, oaths once broke, the soul can- 
 not be somid. 
 The perjurer's a devil let loose: 
 
 what can 
 Tie up his hands, that dares mock 
 God and man ? 
 
 !Seek not the same steps with the 
 
 crowd; stick thou 
 To thy sure trot; a constant, humlile 
 
 mind 
 Is both his own joy, and his Maker's 
 
 too; 
 liCt folly dust it on, or lag behind. 
 A sweet self-privacy in a right soul 
 Outnms the earth, and lines the 
 
 utmost pole. 
 
 To all that seek thee bear an open 
 
 heart ; 
 Make not thy breast a lal)yrinth or 
 
 traj) ; 
 If trials come, this will make good 
 
 thy part. 
 For honesty is safe, come what can 
 
 hap ; 
 It is the good man's feast, the 
 
 prince of flowers, 
 Which thrives in storms, and smells 
 
 best after showers. 
 
 Spend not an hour so as to ^^"eep an- 
 other. 
 
 For tears are not fliine own ; if thou 
 giv'st words. 
 
 Dash not with them thy friend, nor 
 heaven ; oh. smother 
 
 A viperous thought; some syllables 
 are swords. 
 Unbitted tongues are in their pres- 
 ence double ; 
 'They shame their owners, and their 
 liearers trouble. 
 
 When night comes, list thy deeds; 
 
 make plain the M-ay 
 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not 
 
 with delays ; 
 But perfect all before thou sleep" st; 
 
 then say, 
 " There's one sun more strung on my 
 
 bead of days." 
 What's good score up for joy; the 
 
 bad well scann'd 
 "Wash off with tears, and get thy 
 
 Master's hand. 
 
 Thy accounts tluis made, spend in the 
 
 grave one hour 
 Before thy time; be not a stranger 
 
 there, 
 Where thou may'st sleep Mhole ages; 
 
 life's poor flower 
 Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad 
 
 spirits fear 
 This conversation; but the good 
 
 man lies 
 P^ntombed many days before he 
 
 dies. 
 
626 
 
 VAUGHAN. 
 
 Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close 
 
 not thy eyes 
 Up with thy curtains; give thy soul 
 
 the wing 
 In some good thoughts ; so when thy 
 
 day shall rise, 
 And thou unrakest thy tire, those 
 
 sparks will bring 
 New flames; besides where these 
 
 lodge, vain heats mourn 
 And die; that bush, where God is, 
 
 shall not burn. 
 
 TO HIS BOOKS. 
 
 Bright books! the perspectives to 
 
 our weak sights, 
 The clear projections of discerning 
 
 lights, 
 Burning and shining thoughts, man's 
 
 posthume day, 
 The track of fled souls, and their 
 
 milky way, voice 
 
 The dead alive and busy, the still 
 Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's 
 
 white decoys! 
 Who lives with you lives like those 
 
 knowing flowers. 
 Which in commerce with light spend 
 
 all their houi's ; 
 Which shut to clouds, and shadow's 
 
 nicely shun, 
 But with glad haste unveil to kiss 
 
 the sun. (night. 
 
 Beneath you all is dark, and a dead 
 Which whoso lives in, wants both 
 
 health and sight. 
 By sucking you, the wise, like bees, 
 
 do grow 
 Healing and rich, though this they 
 
 do most slow. 
 Because most choicely ; for as great a 
 
 store 
 Have we of books as bees of herbs, 
 
 or more : 
 
 And the great task to try, then know, 
 
 the good. 
 To discern weeds, and judge of 
 
 wholesome food. 
 Is a rare scant perfonnance. For 
 
 man dies 
 Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds 
 
 and flies. 
 But you were all choice flowers; all 
 
 set and dressed 
 By old sage florists, who well knew 
 
 the best ; 
 And I amidst you all am turned a 
 
 weed, 
 Not wanting knowledge, but for want 
 
 of heed. 
 Then thank thyself, Avild fool, that 
 
 would' st not be 
 Content to know — what was too 
 
 much for thee ! 
 
 LIKE AS A IS' U USE. 
 
 Even as a nurse, whose child's im- 
 patient pace 
 
 Can hardly lead his feet from place 
 to place. 
 
 Leaves her fond kissing, sets him 
 down to go, 
 
 Nor does uphold him for a step or 
 two ; 
 
 But when she finds that he begins to 
 fall, 
 
 She holds him up and kisses him 
 withal ; 
 
 So God from man sometimes with- 
 draws his hand 
 
 AAvhile, to teach his infant faith to 
 stand; 
 
 But when He sees his feeble strength 
 begin 
 
 To fail, He gently takes him up 
 again. 
 
VERY. 
 
 G21 
 
 Jones Very. 
 
 NA TUBE. 
 
 The bubbling brook doth leap when 
 I come by. 
 
 Because niy feet find measui'e with 
 its call ; 
 
 The birds know when the friend they 
 love is nigh, 
 
 For I am known to them, both great 
 and small. 
 
 The flower that on the lonely hill- 
 side grows 
 
 Expects me there when spring its 
 bloom has given; 
 
 And many a tree and bush my wan- 
 derings knows, 
 
 And e'en the clouds and silent stars 
 of heaven; 
 
 For he who witli his Maker walks 
 aright. 
 
 Shall be tlieir lord as Adam was be- 
 fore ; 
 
 His ear shall catch each sound with 
 new delight. 
 
 Each object wear the dress that then 
 it wore ; 
 
 And he, as when erect in soul he 
 stood, 
 
 Hear from his Father" s lips that all 
 is ijood. 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 'Tis all a great show. 
 
 The world that we're in — 
 None can tell when 'twas finished, 
 
 None saw it begin; 
 Men wander and gaze through 
 
 Its courts and its halls. 
 Like children whose love is 
 
 The picture-himg walls. 
 
 There are flowers in the meadow. 
 There are clouds in the sky — 
 
 Songs pour from the woodland, 
 The waters glide by: 
 
 Too many, too many 
 
 For eye or for ear. 
 The sights that we see. 
 
 And the sounds that we hear. 
 
 A weight as of slumber 
 
 Comes down on the mind; 
 So swift is life's train 
 
 To its objects we're blind; 
 I myself am but one 
 
 In the fleet-gliding show — 
 Like others I walk. 
 
 But know not whei'e I go. 
 
 One saint to another 
 
 I heard say " How long ? " 
 I listened, but nought more 
 
 I heard of his song; 
 The shadoM'S are walking 
 
 Through city and plain, — 
 How long shall the night 
 
 And its shadow remain ? 
 
 How long ere shall shine. 
 
 In this glimmer of things, 
 The light of which prophet 
 
 In prophecy sings ? 
 And the gates of that city 
 
 Be open, whose sim 
 No more to the Avest 
 
 Its circuit shall run ! 
 
 HOME AND HEAVEN. 
 
 With the same letter heaven and 
 home begin. 
 
 And the words dwell together in the 
 mind; 
 
 For they who would a home in heav- 
 en win, 
 
 Must first a heaven in home begin to 
 find. 
 
 Be happy here, yet with a humble 
 soul 
 
 That looks for perfect happiness in 
 heaven ; 
 
For what thou hast is earnest of the 
 
 whole 
 Which to the faithful shall at last 
 
 be given. 
 As once the patriarch, in a vision 
 
 blessed, 
 Saw the swift angels hastening to 
 
 and fro, 
 
 And the lone spot whereon he lay to 
 
 rest 
 Became to him the gate of heaven 
 
 below ; 
 So may to thee, when life itself is 
 
 done. 
 Thy home on earth and heaven above 
 
 be one. 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
 OLD AGE AND DEATH. 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds 
 
 give o'er; 
 So calm are we when passions are no 
 
 more. [to boast 
 
 For then we know how vain it was 
 Of fleeting things, too certain to be 
 
 lost. 
 
 Clouds of affection from our younger 
 
 eyes 
 Conceal that emptiness which age 
 
 descries. 
 The soul's dark cottage, battered and 
 
 decayed. 
 Lets in new light through chinks 
 
 that time has made. 
 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men be- 
 come, [home. 
 
 As they draw near to their eternal 
 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once 
 tliey view. 
 
 That stand upon the threshold of the 
 new. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 Go, lovely rose! 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me. 
 
 That now she knows, 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her that's young. 
 And shuns to have her graces spied, 
 
 That hadst thovi sprung 
 In deserts where no men abide. 
 Thou must have vmcommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come fortli — 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die, that she 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee — 
 How small a part of time they share 
 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 
 
 ON A GIRDLE. 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 
 Shall now my joyful temples bind : 
 No monarch but would give his crown, 
 His arms might do what tliis has done. 
 
 It was my heaven's extremest sphere, 
 The pale which held that lovely dear, 
 My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
 Did all within this circle move. 
 
 A narrow compass, and yet there 
 Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair; 
 Give me but what tliis riband bound. 
 Take all the rest the sim goes round. 
 
WEBSTER. 
 
 629 
 
 Augusta Webster. 
 
 FROM ''A PREACHER.'' 
 
 I KNOW not bow it is; 
 
 I take the faith in earnest, 1 believe, 
 
 Even at happy times I think I love, 
 
 1 try to pattern me upon the type 
 
 My Master left us, am no hypocrite 
 
 Playing my soul against good men's 
 applause. 
 
 Nor monger of the Gospel for a cure. 
 
 But serve a Master whom I chose 
 because 
 
 It seemed to me I loved Him, whom 
 till now 
 
 My longing is to love; and yet I feel 
 
 A falseness somewhere clogging me. 
 I seem 
 
 Divided from myself; I can speak 
 words 
 
 Of burning faith and fire myself with 
 them ; 
 
 I can, while upturned faces gaze on 
 me 
 
 As if 1 were their Gospel manifest, 
 
 Break into unplann,ed turns as natu- 
 ral 
 
 As the blind man's cry for healing, 
 pass beyond 
 
 My bounded manhood in the earnest- 
 ness 
 
 Of a messenger from God. And then 
 I come 
 
 And in my study's quiet find again 
 
 The callous actor who, because long 
 since 
 
 He had some feelings in him like the 
 talk 
 
 The book puts in his mouth, still 
 warms his pit 
 
 And even, in his lucky moods, him- 
 self, 
 
 AVith tlie passion of his part, but 
 lays aside 
 
 His heroism with his satin suit 
 
 And thinks " the part is good and 
 well conceived 
 
 And very natural — no flaw to find " 
 
 And then forgets it. 
 
 Yes, I preach to others 
 And am — I know not what — a cast- 
 away ? 
 No, but a man who feels his heart 
 
 asleep. 
 As he might feel his hand or foot. 
 
 To-night now I might triumph. Not 
 
 a breath 
 But shivered when I pictured the 
 
 dead soul 
 Awakening when the body dies, to 
 
 know 
 Itself has lived too late; and drew in 
 
 long 
 With yearning when I showed how 
 
 perfect love 
 Might make Earth's self be but an 
 
 earlier Heaven. 
 And I may say and not be over-bold. 
 Judging from former fruits, "Some 
 
 one to-night 
 Has come more near to God, some 
 
 one has felt 
 What it may mean to love Him, 
 
 some one learned 
 A new great horror against death 
 
 and sin. 
 Some one at least — it may be 
 
 many." 
 
 And yet, I know not why it is^ this 
 
 knack 
 Of sermon-making seems to carry 
 
 me 
 x4.thwart the truth at times before 1 
 
 know — 
 In little things at least; thank God 
 
 the greater 
 Have not yet grown, by the familiar 
 
 vise. 
 Such puppets of a phrase as to slip 
 
 by 
 Without clear recognition. Take to- 
 night — 
 I preached a careful sermon, gravely 
 
 planned. 
 
630 
 
 WEBSTER. 
 
 All of it written. Not a line was 
 
 meant 
 To fit the mood of any differing 
 From my own judgment: not the 
 
 less I find — 
 (I thought of it coming home while 
 
 my good Jane 
 Talked of tlie Shetland pony I must 
 
 get 
 For the boys to learn to ride:) yes, 
 
 here it is, 
 And liere again on this page — l)lame 
 
 by rote, 
 Where by my private judgment I 
 
 blame not. 
 " We think our own thoughts on this 
 
 day," I said, 
 "Harmless it may be, kindly even, 
 
 still 
 Not Heaven's thoughts — not Sunday 
 
 thoughts I'll say." 
 Well now, do I, now that I think of 
 
 it, 
 Advise a separation of our thoughts 
 By Sundays and by week-days. Heav- 
 en's and ours ? 
 By no means, for I think the bar is 
 
 bad. 
 ril teach my children "Keep all 
 
 thinkings pure. 
 And think them when you like, if 
 
 but the time 
 Is free to any thinking. Think of 
 
 God 
 So often that in anything you do 
 It cannot seem you have forgotten 
 
 Him, 
 Just as you would not have forgotten 
 
 us. 
 Your mother and myself, although 
 
 your thoughts 
 Were not distinctly on us, while you 
 
 played ; 
 And, if you do this, in the Sunday's 
 
 rest 
 You will most naturally think of 
 
 Him." 
 
 Then here again " the pleasures of 
 
 the world 
 That tempt the younger members of 
 
 my flock." 
 Now I think really that they've not 
 
 enough 
 
 Of these same pleasures. Gray and 
 
 joyless lives 
 A many of them have, whom I would 
 
 see 
 Sharing the natural gayeties of youth. 
 I wish they'd more temptations of 
 
 the kind. 
 
 Now Donne and Allan preach such 
 
 things as these 
 Meaning tliem and believing. As for 
 
 me, 
 What did I mean 'i* Neither to feign 
 
 nor teach 
 A Pharisaic service. 'Twas just this. 
 That there are lessons and rebukes 
 
 long made 
 So much a thing of com'se that, un- 
 
 observing. 
 One sets them down as one puts dots 
 
 to i's, 
 Crosses to i's. 
 
 [From A Painter.] 
 
 THE AirrrsT's dread of blind- 
 ness. 
 
 How one can live on beauty and be 
 
 rich 
 Having only that ! — a thing not hard 
 
 to find. 
 For all the world is beauty. We 
 
 know that. 
 We painters, we whom God shows 
 
 how to see. 
 We have beauty ours, we take it 
 
 where we go. 
 Ay, my wise critics, rob me of niy 
 
 broad. 
 You can do that, but of my birth- 
 right, no. 
 Imprison me away from skies and 
 
 seas. 
 And the open sight of earth and her 
 
 rich life, 
 And the lesson of a face or golden 
 
 hair: 
 I'll find it for you on a whitewashed 
 
 wall. 
 Where the slow shadows only change 
 
 so much 
 As shows the street has different 
 
 darknesses 
 At noontime and at twiliglit. 
 
WEBSTER. 
 
 631 
 
 Only that 
 Could make me poor of beauty which 
 
 I dread 
 Sometimes, I know not why, save 
 
 that it is 
 The one thing which I could 
 
 bear, not bear 
 Even with Kuth by me, even 
 
 Ruth's sake — 
 If this perpetual plodding with 
 
 brush 
 Should blind my fretted eyes! 
 
 not 
 
 for 
 
 the 
 
 ON THE LAKE. 
 
 A SUMMEK mist on the mountain 
 heights, 
 A golden haze in the sky, 
 A glow on the shore of sleeping 
 lights, 
 And shadows lie heavily. 
 
 P'ar in the valley the tOATO lies still, 
 Dreaming asleep in the glare. 
 
 Dreamily near purs the drowsy rill. 
 Dreams are afloat in the air. 
 
 Dreaming above us the languid sky, 
 Dreaming the slumbering lake, 
 
 And we who rest floating listlessly. 
 Say, love, do we dream or wake '? 
 
 THE GIFT. 
 
 HAPPY glow, O sun-bathed tree, 
 O golden-lighted river, 
 
 A love-gift has been given me, 
 And which of you is giver '? 
 
 1 came upon you something sad, 
 Musing a mournful measure. 
 
 Now all my heart in me is glad 
 With a quick sense of pleasure. 
 
 I came upon you with a heart 
 Half-sick of life's vexed story. 
 
 And now it grows of you a part, 
 Steeped in your golden glory. 
 
 A smile into my heart has crept 
 And laughs through all my beinj 
 
 New joy into my life has leapt, 
 A joy of only seeing ! 
 
 O happy glow, O siui-bathed tree, 
 
 O golden-lighted river, 
 A love-gift has been given me, 
 
 And which of you is giver ? 
 
 TWO MAIDENS. 
 
 Two maidens listening to the sea — 
 The younger said " The waves are 
 
 glad, 
 The waves are singing as they break." 
 
 The elder spake : 
 "Sister, their murmur sounds to me 
 
 So very sad." 
 
 Two maidens looking at a grave — 
 One smiled, "A place of happy sleep. 
 It would be happy if I slept." 
 
 The younger wept : 
 "Oh, save me from the rest you crave. 
 
 So lone, so deep." 
 
 Two maidens gazing into life — 
 The younger said, " It is so fair, 
 So warm with light and love and 
 pride." , 
 
 The elder sighed : 
 " It seems to me so vexed with strife, 
 
 So cold and bare." 
 
 Two maidens face to face with death : 
 The elder said, " With quiet bliss 
 Upon his breast I lay my head." 
 
 The younger said : 
 " His kiss has frozen all my breath. 
 
 Must I be his?" 
 
632 
 
 WESLEY. 
 
 Charles Wesley. 
 
 STANZAS FROM " THE TRUE USE 
 OF MUSIC." 
 
 Listed into the cause of sin, 
 
 Why should a good be evil '? 
 Music, alas ! too long has been 
 
 Pressed to obey the devil — 
 Drunken, or lewd, or light, the lay 
 
 Flowed to the soul's undoing — 
 Widened, and strewed with flowers, 
 the way 
 
 Down to eternal ruin. 
 
 Who on the part of God will rise, 
 
 Innocent sound recover — 
 Fly on the prey, and take the prize, 
 
 Plunder the carnal lover — 
 Strip him of every moving strain. 
 
 Every melting measure — 
 Music in virtue's cause retain, 
 
 Rescue the holy pleasure ? 
 
 Come, let us try if Jesus' love 
 
 Will not as well inspire us; 
 Tliis is the theme of those above — 
 
 This upon earth shall fire us. 
 Say, if your hearts are tuned to sing 
 
 is there a subject greater ? 
 Harmony all its strains may bring; 
 
 Jesus' name is sweeter. 
 
 THE ONLY LIGHT. 
 
 Christ, whose glory fills the skies, 
 Christ, the true, the only Light, 
 
 Sun of Righteousness, arise, 
 
 Triuni])!! o'er the sliades of night! 
 
 Day-spring from on high, be near! 
 
 Day-star, in my heart appear! 
 
 Dark and cheerless is the morn 
 
 Unaccom]ianied l)y Thee; 
 Joyless is the day's return 
 
 Till Thy mercy's beams I see; 
 Till they inward light impart, 
 Glail my eyes and war-m my heart. 
 
 Visit, then, this soul of mine. 
 
 Pierce the gloom of sin and grief! 
 
 Fill me, Radiancy Divine, 
 Scatter all my unbelief ! 
 
 More and more Thyself display. 
 
 Shining to the perfect day. 
 
 ,TESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL. 
 
 Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 Let me to Tliy bosom fly, 
 
 AVhile the nearer waters roll. 
 While the tempest still is nigh! 
 
 Hide me, O my Saviour, hide. 
 Till the storm of life is past: 
 
 Safe into Thy haven guide — 
 
 receive my soul at last! 
 
 Other refuge have I none — 
 
 Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; 
 Leave, ah! leave me not alone — 
 
 Still support and comfort me. 
 All my trust on Thee is stayed. 
 
 All my help from Thee I bring: 
 Cover my defenceless head 
 
 With the shadow of Thy wing. 
 
 AVilt Thou not regard my call ? 
 
 Wilt Thou not regard my prayer '? 
 Lo! Ishik, Ifaint,"l fall — 
 
 Lo! on Thee I cast my care; 
 Reach me out Thy gracious hand. 
 
 While I of Thy strength receive ! 
 Hoping against hope I stand — 
 
 Dying, and behold I live. 
 
 Thou, O Christ, art all I want — 
 More than all in Thee I find ; 
 
 Raise the fallen, cheer the faint. 
 Heal the sick, and lead the blind. 
 
 Just and holy is Thy name — 
 
 1 am all unrighteousness; 
 False, and full of sin I am: — 
 
 Thou art full of truth and grace. 
 
WHEELER. 
 
 633 
 
 Plenteous grace with Thee i: 
 found, — 
 
 Grace to cover all my sin ; 
 Let the healing streams abound — 
 
 Make and keep me pure within. 
 Thou of life the foiuitain art — 
 
 Freely let me take of Thee; 
 Spring Thovi up within my heart — 
 
 Rise to all eternity. 
 
 COME, LET US ANEW. 
 
 Come, let us anew our journey pursue, 
 
 Roll round with the year, 
 And never stand still, till the Master 
 appear. 
 
 His adorable viill let us gladly fulfil, 
 
 And our talents improve. 
 By the patience of hope, and the 
 labor of love. 
 
 Our life is a dream; our time, as a 
 stream. 
 Glides swiftly away; 
 And the fugitive moment refuses to 
 
 stay. 
 
 The arrow is flown; the moment is 
 
 gone ; 
 The millennial year 
 Rushes on to our view, and eternity's 
 
 here. 
 
 that each in the day of his coming 
 
 may say, 
 " I liave fought my way through ; 
 
 1 have finished the work thou didst 
 
 give me to do." 
 
 O that each, from his Lord, may re- 
 ceive the glad word, 
 "Well and faithfully done; 
 
 *' Enter into my joy, and sit down on 
 my throne." 
 
 Ella Wheeler. 
 
 SECRETS. 
 
 TiiiXK not some knowledge rests with thee alone. 
 
 Why, even God's stupendous secret. Death, 
 
 We one by one, with our expiring breath. 
 
 Do, pale with wonder, seize and make our own. 
 
 The bosomed treasures of the earth are shown 
 
 Despite her careful hiding; and the air 
 
 Yields its mysterious marvels in despair. 
 
 To swell the mighty storehouse of things known. 
 
 In vain the sea expostulates and raves; 
 It cannot cover from the keen world's sight 
 The curious wonders of its coral caves. 
 And so, despite thy caution or thy tears. 
 The prying fingers of detective years 
 Shall drag thy secret out into the light. 
 
634 
 
 WHITE. 
 
 Blanco White. 
 
 TO NIGHT. 
 
 Mysterious Night! when our first 
 
 parent knew 
 Thee from report divine, and heard 
 
 tliy name ; 
 Did he not tremble for this lovely 
 
 frame, 
 This glorious canopv of light and 
 
 Ijlue ? 
 Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent 
 
 dew. 
 Bathed in the rays of the great set- 
 ting flame, 
 Hesperus with the host of heaven 
 
 came, 
 
 And lo! creation widened in man's 
 view. 
 
 Who could have thought such dark- 
 ness lay concealed 
 
 Within thy beams, O Sun! or who 
 could find, 
 
 While fly, and leaf, and insect lay re- 
 vealed. 
 
 That to such coimtless orbs thou 
 madest us blind ! 
 
 Why do v,e, then, shun Death with 
 anxious strife ? — 
 
 If Light can thus deceive, wherefore 
 not Life ? 
 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMUOSE. 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen 
 
 sire! 
 Whose modest form, so delicately 
 fine, 
 W^as nursed in whirling storms. 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee when young Spring first ques- 
 tioned Winter's sway, 
 And dared the sturdy blusterer to the 
 fight. 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the 
 
 year, 
 Serene, thou openest to the nipping 
 gale, 
 Unnoticed and alone, 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid 
 the storms 
 
 Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 
 Of life she rears her head. 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 \Vhile every bleaching breeze that on 
 
 her blows. 
 Chastens her spotless purity of 
 breast. 
 And hardens her to bear 
 Serene the ills of life. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 It is not that my lot is low. 
 That bids this silent tear to flow; 
 It is not grief that bids me moan. 
 It is that I am all alone. 
 
 In woods and glens I love to roam, 
 When the tired hedger hies him 
 
 home ; 
 Or by the woodland pool to rest. 
 When pale the star looks on its 
 
 breast. 
 
 Yet when the silent evening sighs, 
 Witli hallowed airs and symphonies. 
 My spirit takes another tone. 
 And sighs that it is all alone. 
 
The autumn leaf is sere and dead, 
 It floats upon the water's bed; 
 I would not he a leaf, to die 
 Without recording sorrow's sigh! 
 
 The woods and winds, with sudden 
 
 wail. 
 Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
 I've none to smile when I am free. 
 And when 1 sigh, to sigh with me. 
 
 Yet in my dreams a form I view. 
 That thinks on me, and loves me 
 
 too; 
 1 start, and when the vision's flown, 
 1 weep that I am all alone. 
 
 ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come! 
 
 Not in thy terrors clad ; 
 Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; 
 Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
 The restless and the bad. 
 But I recline 
 Beneath thy shrine, 
 And round my brow resigned, thy 
 peaceful cypress twine. 
 
 Though Fancy flies away 
 
 Before thy hollow tread, 
 Yet Meditation in her cell; 
 Hears with faint eye the lingering 
 knell. 
 That tells her hopes are dead; 
 And though the tear 
 By chance appear. 
 Yet she can smile, and say, ^My all 
 was not laid here. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come! 
 
 Though from Hope's summit 
 hurled, 
 Still, rigid nurse, thou art forgiven. 
 For thou severe wert sent from 
 heaven 
 To wean me from the world ; 
 To turn my eye 
 From vanity. 
 And point to scenes of bliss that 
 never, never die. 
 
 What is this passing scene! 
 
 A peevish April day ! 
 A little sun — a little rain, 
 Aud then night sweeios along the 
 plain. 
 And all things fade away. 
 Man (soon discussed) 
 Yields up his trust, 
 And all his hopes and fears lie with 
 him in the dust. 
 
 Oh, what is beauty's power ? 
 
 It flourishes and dies; 
 Will the cold earth its silence i)reak, 
 To tell how soft, how smooth a 
 cheek 
 Beneath its surface lies? 
 Mute, mute is all 
 O'er beauty's fall; 
 Her praise resounds no moic when 
 mantled in the pall. 
 
 The most beloved on earth 
 Not long survives to-day ; 
 So music past is obsolete. 
 And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing 
 sweet ; 
 But now 'tis gone away. 
 Thus does the shade 
 In memory fade. 
 When in forsaken tomb the form 
 beloved is laid. 
 
 Then since this world is vain. 
 
 And volatile and fleet. 
 Why should I lay up earthly joys. 
 Where rust corrupts, and moth de- 
 stroys, 
 And cares and sorrows eat ? 
 Why fly from ill 
 With anxious skill, 
 When soon this hand will freeze, 
 this throbbing heart be still ? 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come! 
 
 Thou art not stern to me; 
 Sad monitress! 1 own thy sway, 
 A votary sad in early day, 
 I bend my knee to thee. 
 From sun to sun 
 My race will run, 
 I only bow and say. My God, Thy 
 will be done. 
 
63G 
 
 WHITNEY. 
 
 THE STANZA ADDED TO WALLER'S 
 " ROSE." 
 
 Yet, though thou fade, 
 From thy dead leaves let fragrance 
 rise ; 
 And teach the maid, 
 Tliat goodness Time's rude hand de- 
 lies, 
 That virtue lives when beauty dies. 
 
 TO MISFORTUNE. 
 
 Misfortune, I am young, — my chin 
 
 is bare, 
 And I have \\'ondered much when 
 
 men have told 
 How youtli was free from sorrow and 
 
 from care. 
 That thou should'st dwell with me, 
 
 and leave the old. 
 Sure dost not like me ! — Slirivelled 
 
 hag of hate. 
 My phiz, and thanks to thee, is 
 
 sadly long; 
 1 am not either, beldame, over 
 
 strong; 
 Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, 
 For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter 
 
 hate. 
 Nay, shake not thus thy miserable 
 
 pate; [face; 
 
 I am yet young, and do not like thy 
 And lest thou should'st resume the 
 
 wild-goose chase. 
 
 I'll tell thee something all thy heat 
 
 to assuage. 
 Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my 
 
 age. 
 
 A LITTLE BEFORE DEATH. 
 
 Yes, 'twill be over soon. — This 
 sickly dream 
 Of life will vanish from my fever- 
 ish brain; 
 And deatb my wearied spirit will re- 
 deem 
 From this wild region of unvaried 
 pain. 
 Yon brook will glide as softly as be- 
 fore, — 
 Yon landscape smile, — yon golden 
 harvest grow, 
 Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing 
 will soar, 
 When Henry's name is heard no 
 more below. 
 I sigh when all my youthful friends 
 caress, 
 They laugh in health, and future 
 evils brave; 
 Them shall a wife and smiling chil- 
 dren bless, 
 AYhile I am mouldering in my silent 
 grave. 
 God of the just, — Thou gavest the 
 
 bitter cup; 
 I l)ow to thy behest, and drink it up. 
 
 Adeline D. T. Whitney. 
 
 EQUINOCTIAL. 
 
 The sun of life has crossed the line; 
 
 The summer-shine of lengthened 
 light 
 Faded and failed, till where I stand 
 
 'Tis equal day and equal night. 
 
 One after one, as dwindling hours. 
 Youth's glowing hopes have drop- 
 ped away. 
 
 And soon may barely leave the gleam 
 That coldly scores a winter's day. 
 
 I am not young; I am not old; 
 
 The Hush of morn, the sunset calm. 
 Paling and deepening, each to each. 
 
 Meet midway with a solemn charm. 
 
 One side I see the summer fields 
 Not yet disrobed of all their green; 
 
 While westerly, along the hills 
 Flame the first tints of frosty sheen. 
 
 Ah, middle point, where cloud and 
 storm 
 Make battle-groimd of this, my life ! 
 
WHITNEY. 
 
 637 
 
 Where, even-matched, the night and 
 (lay 
 Wage round me their September 
 strife ! 
 
 I bow me to the threatening gale; 
 
 I know wlien that is overpast, 
 Among the peaceful harvest days, 
 
 An Indian summer comes at last I 
 
 BEHIND THE MASK. 
 
 It was an old, distorted face, — 
 An uncouth visage, rough and 
 wild, — 
 Yet, from behind, with laughing 
 grace, 
 Peeped the fresh beauty of a child. 
 
 And so, contrasting strange to-day, 
 My heart of youth doth inly ask 
 
 If half earth's wrinkled grimness 
 may 
 Be but the baby in the mask. 
 
 Behind gray hairs and furrowed bi'ow 
 
 And withered look that life puts 
 
 on, 
 
 Each, as he wears it, comes to know 
 
 How the child hides, and is not 
 
 gone. 
 
 For while the inexorable years 
 To saddened features fit their 
 mould, 
 Beneath the work of time and tears 
 Waits something that will not grow 
 old! 
 
 The rifted pine upon the hill. 
 Scarred by the lightning and the 
 wind. 
 Through bolt and blight doth nurture 
 still 
 Young fibres underneath the rind ; 
 
 And many a storm-blast, fiercely sent, 
 And wasted hope, and sinf id stain, 
 
 Roughen the strange integument 
 The struggling soul nuist wear in 
 pain; 
 
 Yet when she comes to claim her own, 
 
 Heaven's angel, happily, shall not 
 
 ask 
 
 For that last look the world hath 
 
 known, 
 
 But for the face behind the mask ! 
 
 THE THREE LIGHTS. 
 
 My window that looks down the west, 
 Where the cloud-thrones and islands 
 
 rest. 
 One evening, to my random sight. 
 Showed forth this picture of delight. 
 
 The shifting glories were all gone; 
 The clear blue stillness coming on; 
 And the soft shade, 'twixt day and 
 
 night 
 Held the old earth in tender light. 
 
 Up in the ether hung the horn 
 Of a young moon; and, newly born 
 From out the shadows, trembled far 
 The shining of a single star. 
 
 Only a hand's breadth was between: 
 
 So close they seemed, so sweet- 
 serene. 
 
 As if in heaven some child and 
 mother. 
 
 With peace untold, had found each 
 other. 
 
 Then my glance fell from that fair 
 
 sky 
 A little down, yet very nigh. 
 Just where the neighboring tree-tops 
 
 made 
 A lifted line of billowy shade, — 
 
 And from the earth-dark twinkled 
 
 clear 
 One other spark, of human cheer; 
 A home-smile, telling where there 
 
 stood 
 A farmer's house beneath the Avood. 
 
 Only these three in all the space; 
 Far telegraphs of various place. 
 Which seeing, this glad thought was 
 
 mine, — 
 Be it but little oandle-shine. 
 
638 
 
 WHITNEY. 
 
 Oi- golden disk of moon that swings 
 Nearest of ail tlie lieavenly things, 
 Or world in awful distance small, 
 One Light doth feed and link them 
 all! 
 
 " / iriLL ABIDE IX THINE HOUSE." 
 
 Among so many, can He care ? 
 Can special love be everywhere ? 
 A myriad homes, — a myriad ways, — 
 And God's eye over every place. 
 
 Orer ; but in ? The world is full ; 
 A grand omnipotence must rule; 
 But is there life that doth abide 
 With mine own living, side by side ? 
 
 So many, and so wide abroad : 
 Can any heart have all of God ? 
 From the great spaces, vague and dim. 
 May one small household gather Him? 
 
 I asked : my soul bethought of this : — 
 In just that very place of his 
 AVhere He hath put and keepeth you, 
 (Jod hath no other thing to do! 
 
 HEARTH-GLOW. 
 
 ly the fireshine at the twilight. 
 
 The pictui'es that I see 
 Are less with mimic landscape bright 
 
 Than with life and mystery. 
 
 Where the embers flush and flicker 
 With their iialpitating glow, 
 
 I see, titfuller and quicker, 
 Heart-pulses come and go. 
 
 And here and there, with eager flame, 
 
 A little tongue of light 
 Upreaches eai-nestly to claina 
 
 A somewhat out of sight. 
 
 I know, with instinct sure and high, 
 A somewhat must be there; 
 
 Else should the fiery impulse die. 
 In ashes of despair. 
 
 Through the red ti'acery I discern 
 
 A parable siddime ; 
 A solemn myth of souls that burn 
 
 In ordeals of time. 
 
 SUNLIGHT AND STAIUJGHT. 
 
 Got) sets some souls in shade, alone; 
 Tliey have no daylight of their own: 
 Only in lives of happier ones 
 They see the shine of distant suns. 
 
 God knows. Content thee with thy 
 
 night. 
 Thy greater heaven hath grander 
 
 light. 
 To-day is close; the hours are small; 
 Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all. 
 
 Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; 
 Keach forth a larger bliss to find. 
 To-day is brief : the inclusive spheres 
 Kain raptures of a thousand yeai's. 
 
 LAIir^. 
 
 My little maiden of four years old — 
 
 No myth, but a genuine child is she. 
 With her bronze-brown eyes and her curls of gold — 
 
 Came, quite in disgust, one day, to me. 
 
 Rubbing her shoulder Avith rosy palm. 
 As the loathsome touch seemed yet to thrill her, 
 
 She cried, '' O mother! I found on my arm 
 A horrible, crawling caterpillar! " 
 
 And with mischievous smile she could scarcely smother, 
 Yet a glance in its daring, half awed, half shy, 
 
 She added, '• While they were about it, mother 
 I wish they'd just finished the butterfly!" 
 
They were words to the thought of the soul that turns 
 
 From the coarser form of a partial growth, 
 Eeproaching the intinite patience that yearns 
 
 With an unknown glory to crown them hoth. 
 
 Ah, look thou largely, with lenient eyes, 
 On wliatso beside tliee may creep and cling, 
 
 For the possible glory that underlies 
 The passing phase of the meanest thing ! 
 
 What if God's great angels, whose waiting love 
 
 Beholdeth our pitiful life below 
 From the holy height of their heaven above. 
 
 Could n't bear with the worm till the wings should grow ? 
 
 Elizabeth H. Whittier. 
 
 CHAIUTY. 
 
 The pilgrim and stranger, who, \ For gifts, in his name, of food and 
 
 thi'ough the day, I rest, 
 
 Holds over the desert his trackless j The tents of Islam, of God are 
 
 way, I blest. 
 
 Where the terrible sands no shade 
 
 have known. 
 No sound of life save his camel's 
 
 moan, 
 Hears, at last, through the mercy of 
 
 Allah to all, 
 From his tent-door, at evening, the 
 Bedouin's call: 
 " Whoever thou art, whose need is 
 
 great, 
 In the name of God, the Compas- 
 sionate 
 And Merciful One, for thee I 
 wait!" 
 
 Thou, who hast faith in the Christ 
 
 above, 
 Shall the Koran teach thee the Law 
 
 of Love ? 
 O Christian ! — open thy heart and 
 
 door, — 
 Cry, east and west, to the wandering 
 poor, — 
 " Whoever thou art, whose need is 
 
 great, 
 In the name of Christ, the Compas- 
 sionate 
 And Merciful One, for thee I 
 wait! " 
 
 John G. 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY. 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man. 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
 With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
 And thy merry whistled tunes; 
 With thy red lip, redder still 
 Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 With the sunshine on thy face, 
 
 Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 
 
 From my heart I give thee joy, — 
 
 I was once a barefoot boy ! 
 
 Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
 
 Only is republican. 
 
 Let the million-dollared ride! 
 
 Barefoot, trudging at his side. 
 
640 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 
 In the reach of ear and eye, — 
 (Jutward sunshine, inward joy: 
 Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 
 
 Oh, for boyhood's painless play, 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
 Knowledge never learned in schools, 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
 Of the Avild-flower's time and place. 
 Flight of fowl and habitude 
 ( )f the tenants of the wood ; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell, 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 How the robin feeds her young. 
 How the oriole's nest is hung; 
 AVhere the whitest lilies blow, 
 Where the freshest berries grow, 
 Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
 Where the wood-grape's clusters 
 
 shine ; 
 Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
 Mason of his walls of clay, 
 And the architectural plans 
 Of gray hornet artisans ! — 
 For, eschewing books and tasks, 
 Nature answers all he asks ; 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 Face to face with her he talks, 
 Part and parcel of her joy, — 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 Oh. for boyhood's time of June, 
 Crowding years in one brief moon, 
 When all things I heard or saw, 
 Me, their master, waited for. 
 I was rich in flowers and trees, 
 Huumiing-birds and honey-bees; 
 For my sport the squirrel played, 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone; 
 Laughed tlit> brook for my delight 
 Thi-ough the day and through the 
 
 night. 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 Talked Avith me from fall to fall ; 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
 Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 
 Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
 Apples of Hesperides ! 
 Still as my liorizon grew 
 
 Larger grew my riches too ; 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 
 
 Oh, for festal dainties spread, 
 IJke my bowl of milk and bread, — 
 Pewter spoon and bowl of wood. 
 On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
 O'er me, like a regal tent, 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold; 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
 While for music came the play 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
 And, to light the noisy choir, 
 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
 I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
 Waited on the barefoot boy. 
 
 Cheerily, then, my little man, 
 Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
 Stubble - speared the new - mown 
 
 sward. 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat. 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison cells of pride. 
 Lose the freedom of tlie sod. 
 Like a colt's for work be shod. 
 Made to tread the mills of toil. 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil : 
 Happy if their track be found 
 Never on forbidden grountl ; 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 
 
 ly SCHOOL-DA VS. 
 
 Still sits the school-house by the 
 road, 
 
 A ragged beggar sunning; 
 Around it still the sumachs grow. 
 
 And blackberry-vines are running. 
 
 Within, the master's desk is seen. 
 Deep scarred by raps official ; 
 
 The warping floor, the battered seats, 
 The jack-knife's carved initial; 
 
The charcoal frescoes on its wall; 
 
 Its clooi'"s worn sill, hetraying 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
 
 Went storming out to playing! 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 
 IShone over it at setting ; 
 Lit up its western window-panes, 
 
 And low eaves' icy fretting. 
 
 It touched the tangled golden curls, 
 Antl brown eyes full of grieving, 
 
 Of one wlio still her steps delayed 
 When all the school were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little boy 
 Her childish favor singled : 
 
 His cap ijulled low upon a face 
 Where pride and shame were min- 
 gled. 
 
 Pushing with restless feet the snow 
 To right and left, he lingered; — 
 
 As restlessly her tiny hands 
 The blue-checked apron fingered. 
 
 He saw^ her lift her eyes; he felt 
 The soft hand's light caressing, 
 
 And heai-d the tremble of her voice. 
 As if a fault confessing. 
 
 " I'm sorry that I spelt the word : 
 
 I hate to go above you. 
 Because."' — the brown eyes lower 
 fell. — 
 
 " Because, you see, I love you! " 
 
 Still memory to a gray-haired man 
 That sweet child-face is showing. 
 
 Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
 Have forty years been growing! 
 
 He lives to learn, in life's hard 
 school 
 
 How few who pass above him 
 Lament their triumph and liis loss. 
 
 Like her, — because they love Mm. 
 
 MY PSALM. 
 
 I .AiouKX no more my vanished yeai's: 
 
 Beneath a tender rain. 
 An April rain of smiles and tears, 
 
 My heart is young again. 
 
 The west-winds blow, and, singing 
 low, 
 
 I hear tlie glad streams run; 
 The windows of my soul I throw 
 
 Wide open to the sun. 
 
 No longer foi-ward nor behind 
 
 I look in hope or fear; 
 But, grateful take the good I find, 
 
 The best of now and here. 
 
 I plough no more a desert land. 
 
 To harvest weed and tare: 
 The manna droi:)ping from (iod's 
 hand 
 
 Rebukes my painful care. 
 
 I break my pilgrim staff, — I lay 
 
 Aside the toiling oar; 
 The angel sought so far away 
 
 I welcome at my door. 
 
 The airs of spring may never play 
 Among the ripening corn. 
 
 Nor freshness of the liowers of May 
 Blow through the autumn morn ; 
 
 Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
 Through fringed lids to heaven. 
 
 And the pale aster in the brook 
 Shall see its image given : 
 
 The woods shall wear their robes of 
 praise, 
 
 The soxith-wind softly sigh, 
 And sweet, calm days in golden haze 
 
 Melt down the amber sky. 
 
 Not less shall manly deed and word 
 
 Rebuke an age of w^rong ; 
 The graven flowers that wreathe the 
 sword 
 
 Make not the blade less strong. 
 
 But smiting hands shall learn to 
 heal, — 
 
 To build as to destroy ; 
 Nor less my heart for others feel 
 
 That I tlie more enjoy. 
 
 All as God wills, who wisely heeds 
 
 To give or to withhold. 
 And knoweth nicMe of all my- needs 
 
 Than all my prayers have told ! 
 
642 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 Enough that blessiiiijs undeserved 
 Have marked my erring track; — 
 
 That wheresoe'er my feet have 
 swerved, 
 His chastening turned me back : — 
 
 That more and more a Providence 
 
 Of love is understood. 
 Making tlie springs of time and sense 
 
 Sweet with eternal good ; — 
 
 That death seems but a covered way 
 
 Which opens into light. 
 Wherein no blinded child can stray 
 
 Beyond the Father's sight; — 
 
 That care and trial seem at last. 
 Through Memory's sunset air, 
 
 Like mountain-ranges overpast. 
 In purple distance fair; — 
 
 That all the jarring notes of life 
 Seem blending in a psalm, 
 
 And all the angles of its strife 
 Slow rounding into calm. 
 
 And so the shadows fall apart, 
 And so the west-winds i^lay ; 
 
 And all the windows of my heart 
 I open to the day. 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn. 
 Clear in the cool September morn. 
 
 The cluster' d spires of Frederick 
 
 stand. 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland ; 
 
 Kound about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach-tree fruited deej), 
 
 Fair as a garden of the Lord, 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel 
 horde, 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early 
 fall. 
 
 When Lee marched over the moun- 
 tain wall, 
 
 Over the mountains winding down. 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars. 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars. 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind: the 
 
 sim 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not 
 
 one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and 
 
 ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town. 
 She took up the flag the men hauled 
 down. 
 
 In her attic window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced: the old flag met his 
 " sight. 
 
 " Halt !" — the dust-brown ranks stood 
 
 fast; 
 •'Fire!" — out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and 
 
 sash. 
 It rent the banner with seam and 
 
 gash. 
 
 Quick, as it fell from the broken statt. 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken 
 scarf. 
 
 She leaned far out on the window- 
 sill. 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 "Shoot, if you must, this old gray 
 
 head. 
 But spare your country's flag." she 
 
 said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirr'd 
 To life at that woman's deed and 
 word. 
 
 ''Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. 
 
WHITTIER. 
 
 643 
 
 All clay long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 
 
 All daj' long that free flag tossed 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well; 
 
 And, through the hill-gaps, sunset 
 light 
 
 Shone over it Mith a warm good- 
 night. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 
 And the rebel rides on his raids no 
 more. 
 
 Honor to her! and let a tear 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's 
 bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. 
 Flag of Freedom and Union wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law: 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town. 
 
 MAUD MULLEli. 
 
 Matd Muller, on a summer's day, 
 Raked the meadoM' sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the 
 
 wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry 
 
 glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far-off 
 
 town , 
 White from its hill-slope looking 
 
 down, 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague 
 
 imrest 
 And a nameless longing filled her 
 
 breast, — 
 
 A wish that she hardly dared to own, 
 For something better than she had 
 known. 
 
 The judge rode slowly down the lane, 
 Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 
 Of the apple-trees to greet the maid : 
 
 And asked a draught from the spring 
 
 that flowed 
 Through the meadow across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring 
 
 bubbled np. 
 And filled for him her small tin cup. 
 
 And blushed as she gave it. looking 
 
 down 
 On her feet so bare, and her tattered 
 
 gown. 
 
 " Thanks," said the judge, " a 
 
 sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never 
 
 quaffed." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers 
 and trees. 
 
 Of the singing birds and the hum- 
 ming bees; 
 
 Then talked of the haying, and won- 
 dered whether 
 
 The cloud in the Avest would bring 
 foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown. 
 And her graceful ankles bare and 
 brown ; 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel 
 eyes. 
 
 At last, like one mIio for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud Mnller looked and sighed: 
 
 " Ah me! 
 That I the judge's bride might be! 
 
 "He Avould dress me up in silks so 
 
 fine. 
 And praise and toast me at his wine. 
 
644 
 
 WIIITTIER. 
 
 " My father should wear a broadcloth 
 
 coat; 
 My brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 "I'd dress my mother so grand and 
 
 gay, 
 And the baby should have a new toy 
 
 each day. 
 
 " And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe 
 
 the poor, 
 And all should bless me who left our 
 
 door. ' ' 
 
 The judge looked back as he climbed 
 
 the hill, 
 And saw Maud Muller standmg still. 
 
 " A form more fair, a face more 
 
 sweet. 
 Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 
 
 " And her modest answer and grace- 
 ful air 
 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 " Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
 Like her, a harvester of hay : 
 
 "No doulttful balance of rights and 
 
 wrongs. 
 Nor weary lawyers with endless 
 
 tongues, 
 
 " But low of cattle and song of birds. 
 And health, and quiet, and loving 
 words." 
 
 But he thought of his sisters proud 
 
 and cold. 
 And his mother vain of her rank and 
 
 gold. 
 
 So, closing his heart, the judge rode 
 
 on. 
 And Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that after- 
 noon. 
 
 When he hummed in court an old 
 love-tune; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the 
 
 well. 
 Till the rain on the unraked clover 
 
 fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower. 
 Who lived for fashion, as he for 
 power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright 
 
 glow, 
 He watched a picture come and go : 
 
 And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft, when the wine in his glass was 
 red. 
 
 He longed for the wayside well in- 
 stead, 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished 
 rooms. 
 
 To dream of meadows and clover- 
 blooms. 
 
 And the proud man sighed, with a 
 
 secret pain : 
 ' ' Ah, that I were free again ! 
 
 " Free as when I rode that day. 
 Where the barefoot maiden raked 
 her hay." 
 
 She wedded a man unlearned and 
 
 poor, 
 And many children played round 
 
 her door. 
 
 But care, and sorrow, and childbirth 
 
 pain. 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone 
 
 hot 
 On the new-mown hay in the meadow 
 
 lot. 
 
 And she heard the little spring-brook 
 
 fall 
 Over the roadside, through the wall, 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein, 
 
 And, gazing down, with timid grace. 
 She felt his pleased eyes read her 
 face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitclien walls 
 Stretched away into stately halls; 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
 The tallow candle an astral burned, 
 
WllITTlER. 
 
 645 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney 
 
 lug, 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and 
 
 luug, 
 
 A manly form at her side she saw, 
 And joy was duty, and love was law. 
 
 Then she took up her burden of life 
 
 again, 
 Saying only, " It might have been." 
 
 Alas, for maiden, alas, for judge. 
 For rich repiner and household 
 drudge ! 
 
 God pity them both, and pity us all, 
 Who vainly the dreams of youth re- 
 call. 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or 
 
 pen, 
 The saddest are these: "It might 
 
 have been! " 
 
 Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope 
 
 lies 
 Deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 
 And, in the hereafter, angels may 
 Eoll the stone from its grave away ! 
 
 [From The Tvnf on fhe Beach.— The Grave 
 
 bij the Lake.'] 
 
 UXn'EIlSAL SAL VA TIOX. 
 
 O THE generations old 
 
 Over whom no church-bells tolled, 
 
 Christless, lifting up blind eyes 
 
 To the silence of the skies ! 
 
 For the innumerable dead 
 
 Is my soul disquieted, 
 
 Hearest thou, O of little faith. 
 What to thee the mountain saith. 
 What is whispered by the trees ? — 
 " Cast on God thy care for these; 
 Trust him, if Ihy sight be dim; 
 Doubt for them is doubt of Him. 
 
 "Blind must be their close-shut eyes 
 Where like night the sunshine lies, 
 Fiery-linked the self-forged chain 
 Binding ever sin to pain. 
 Strong their prison-house of will. 
 But without He waitetli still. 
 
 "Xot with hatred's undertow 
 Doth the IjOvc Eternal flow ; 
 Every chain that spirits wear 
 Crumbles in the breath of prayer; 
 And the i>enitent's desire 
 Opens every gate of lire. 
 
 "Still Thy love, O Christ arisen, 
 Yearns to reach these souls in prison ! 
 Through all depths of sin and loss 
 Drops the plummet of Thy cross ! 
 Never yet abyss was found 
 Deeper than that cross could sound !' ' 
 
 [From The Tent on the /leach. — Abraham 
 Davenport.] 
 
 KA T URE' S RE VEUEN ( E . 
 
 The harp at Nature's advent, strung 
 
 Has never ceased to play : 
 The song the stars of morning sung 
 
 Has never died away. 
 
 And prayer is made, and praise is 
 given, 
 
 By ail things near and far: 
 The ocean looketh up to heaven. 
 
 And mirrors every star. 
 
 Its waves are kneeling on the strand. 
 As kneels the human knee. 
 
 Their white locks bowing to the sand, 
 The priesthood of the sea ! 
 
 They pour their glittering treasures 
 forth. 
 
 Their gifts of pearl they bring, 
 And all the listening hills of earth 
 
 Take up the song they sing. 
 
 The green earth sends her incense 
 up 
 
 From many a mountain shrine: 
 From folded leaf and dewy cup 
 
 She pours her sacred wine. 
 
 The mists above the morning rills 
 Else white as wings of prayer; 
 
 The altar-curtains of the hills 
 Are sunset's purple air. 
 
 The winds with hymns of praise are 
 loud. 
 
 Or low Avith sobs of pain, — 
 The thunder-organ of the cloud. 
 
 The dropping tears of rain. 
 
G4G 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 With drooping head and branches 
 crossed 
 
 The twihght forest grieves, 
 Or spealvs with tongues of Pentecost 
 
 From all its sunlit leaves. 
 
 The blue sky is the teniphvs arch, 
 Its transept earth and air. 
 
 The music of its starry march 
 The chorus of a prayer. 
 
 So Nature keeps the reverent frame 
 With which her years began, ' 
 
 And all her signs and voices shame 
 The prayerless heart of man. 
 
 THE PRESSED GENTIAN. 
 
 The time of gifts has come again, 
 And, on my northern window-pane. 
 Outlined against the day's brief light, 
 A Christmas token hangs in sight. 
 The wayside travellers, as they pass, 
 Mark the gray disk of clouded glass ; 
 And the dull blankness seems, per- 
 chance, 
 Folly to their wise ignorance. 
 
 They cannot from their outlook see 
 The perfect grace it hath for me ; 
 For there the llower, whose fringes 
 
 through 
 The frosty breath of autumn blew. 
 Turns from without its face of bloom 
 To the warm tropic of my room. 
 As fair as when beside its brook 
 The hue of bending skies it took. 
 
 So, from the trodden ways of earth. 
 Seem some sweet souls who veil 
 
 their worth. 
 And offer to the careless glance 
 The clouding gray of circumstance. 
 They blossom best where hearth-fires 
 
 burn. 
 To loving eyes alone they turn 
 The flowers of inward grace, that 
 
 hide 
 Their beauty from the world outside. 
 
 But deeper meanings come to me. 
 My half-immortal flower, from thee ! 
 
 Man judges from a partial view, 
 None ever yet his brother knew; 
 The Eternal Eye that sees the whole 
 May better read the darkened soul, 
 And And, to outward senses denied. 
 The flower upon its inmost side! 
 
 MY PLAYMATE. 
 
 The pines were dark on Ilamoth hill, 
 Their song was soft and low : 
 
 The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
 Were falling like the snow. 
 
 The blossoms drifted at our feet. 
 The orchard birds sang clear : 
 
 The sweetest and the saddest day 
 It seemed of all the year. 
 
 For, more to me than birds or flow- 
 ers. 
 My playmate left her home. 
 And took with her the laughing 
 spring. 
 The music and the bloom. 
 
 She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 
 She laid her hand in mine ; 
 
 AVhat more could ask the bashful 
 boy 
 Who fed her father' s kine ? 
 
 She left us in the bloom of May : 
 The constant years told o'er 
 
 Their seasons with as swett May 
 morns. 
 But she came back no more. 
 
 I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 
 
 Of uneventful years; 
 Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 
 
 And reap the autumn ears. 
 
 She lives where all the golden year 
 
 Her summer roses blow ; 
 The dusky children of the sun 
 
 Before her come and go. 
 
 There haply with her jewelled hands 
 She smooths her silken gown, — 
 
 No more the homespun lap wherein 
 1 shook the walnuts dow n. 
 
nc PINES WERE DARK ON RAMOTH HILL. 
 
 Page 64b 
 
WILDE. 
 
 647 
 
 The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 
 Tlie brown nuts on the liill, 
 
 And still the May-day flowers make 
 sweet 
 The woods of Follymill. 
 
 The lilies blossom in the pond, 
 The bird builds iu the tree, 
 
 The dark pines sing on Kamoth hill 
 The slow song of the sea. 
 
 I wonder if she thinks of them, 
 And how the old time seems. — 
 
 If ever the pines of Kamoth wood. 
 Are sounding in her dreams. 
 
 I see her face, I hear her voice: 
 Does she remember mine ? 
 
 And what to her is now the boy 
 Who fed her father's kine '? 
 
 What cares she that the orioles build 
 For other eyes than ours, — 
 
 That other hands with nuts are ttlled, 
 And other laps with flowers ? 
 
 O playmate in the golden time! 
 
 Our mossy seat is green. 
 Its fringing violets blossom yet, 
 
 The old trees o'er it lean. 
 
 The winds so sweet with birch and 
 fern 
 
 A sweeter memory l)low; 
 And there in spring the vecries sing 
 
 The songs of long ago. 
 
 And still the pines of Eamoth wood 
 Are moaning like the sea, — 
 
 The moaning of the sea of change 
 Between myself and thee! 
 
 Oscar Wilde. 
 
 EASTER-DAY. 
 
 The silver trumpets rang across the 
 dome : 
 The people knelt upon the ground 
 
 with awe : 
 And borne upon the necks of men 
 I saw. 
 Like some great god, the Holy Lord 
 
 of Rome. 
 I'riest-like, he wore a robe more 
 white than foam. 
 And, king-like, swathed himself 
 
 in royal red. 
 Three crowns of gold rose high 
 upon his head : 
 In splendor and in light the Pope 
 
 passed home. 
 My heart stole back across wide 
 wastes of years 
 To One who wandered by a 
 
 lonely sea. 
 And sought in vain for any place 
 of rest: 
 "Foxes have holes, and every bird 
 its nest, 
 I, only I. nuist wander wearily, 
 And bruise my feet, and drink 
 wine salt with tears." 
 
 MADONNA MIA. 
 
 A i,iLY-GiRL, not made for this 
 world's pain. 
 With brown, soft hair close braided 
 
 by her ears. 
 And longing eyes half veiled by 
 slumberous tears 
 Like bluest water seen through mists 
 
 of rain: 
 Pale cheeks whereon no love hath 
 left its stain, 
 Red underlip drawn in for fear of 
 
 love. 
 And white throat, whiter than the 
 silvered dove. 
 Through whose wan marble creeps 
 
 one iHu-ple vein. 
 Yet, though my lips shall praise her 
 without cease. 
 Even to kiss her feet I am not 
 bold, [of awe. 
 
 Being o'ershadowed by the wings 
 Like Dante, when he stootl with 
 Beatrice 
 Beneath the flaming lion's breast, 
 
 and saw 
 The seventh Crystal, and the Stair 
 of Gold. 
 
648 
 
 WILDE. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ON HEARING THE DIES IR^ SUNG IN 
 THE SISTINE CHAPEL. 
 
 Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in 
 the spring, 
 Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted 
 
 dove. 
 Teach nie more clearly of Thy life 
 and love 
 Than terrors of red flame and thim- 
 
 dering. 
 The empurpled vines dear memories 
 of Thee bring: 
 A bird at evening Oying to its nest. 
 Tells me of One who had no place 
 of rest: 
 I think it is of Thee the sparrows 
 
 sing. 
 Come rather on some autumn after- 
 noon. 
 When red and brown are burnished 
 
 on the leaves, 
 And the tields echo to the gleaner's 
 song. 
 Come when the splendid fulness of 
 the moon 
 Looks down upon the rows of 
 
 golden sheaves. 
 And reap Thy harvest : we have 
 waited long. 
 
 IMPRESSION DU MATIN. 
 
 The Thames nocturne of blue and 
 
 gold 
 
 Changed to a harmony in gray: 
 
 A barge with ochre-colored hay 
 
 Dropt from the wharf: and chill and 
 
 cold 
 
 The yellow fog came creeping down 
 The bridges, till the houses' walls 
 Seemed changed to shadows, and 
 St. Paul's 
 
 Loomed like a bubble o'er the town. 
 
 Then suddenly arose the clang 
 Of waking life; the streets were 
 
 stirred 
 With country wagons : and a bird 
 
 Flew to the glistening roofs and sang. 
 
 But one pale woman all alone. 
 The daylight kissing her wan hair. 
 Loitered beneath the gas-lamps' 
 flare, 
 
 With lips of flame and heart of stone. 
 
 .S' UNUISE. 
 
 The sky is laced with fitful red. 
 The circling mists and shadows 
 
 flee, 
 The dawn is rising from the sea, 
 Like a white lady from her bed. 
 
 And jagged brazen arrows fall 
 Athwart the feathers of the night. 
 And a long wave of yellow liglit 
 Breaks silently on tower and hall, 
 
 And spreading wide across the 
 
 wold 
 Wakes into flight some fluttering 
 
 bird. 
 And all the chestnut tops are 
 
 stirred 
 And all the branches streaked with 
 
 gold. 
 
 SILHOUETTES. 
 
 The sea is flecked with bars of gray 
 The dull dead wind is out of tmie, 
 And like a withered leaf the moon 
 
 Is blown across the stormy bay. 
 
 Etched clear upon the pallid sand 
 The black boat lies: a sailor boy 
 Clambers aboard in careless joy 
 
 With laughing face and gleaming 
 hand. 
 
 And overhead the curlews cry. 
 Where through the dusky upland 
 
 grass 
 The young brown-throated reapers 
 pass. 
 Like silhouettes against the sky. 
 
 HEQUIESCAT. 
 
 Tread lightly, she is near 
 
 Under the snow. 
 Speak gently, she can hear 
 
 The daisies grow. 
 
All her bright golden hair 
 Tarnished with rust, 
 
 She that was young and fair 
 Fallen to dust. 
 
 Lily-like, white as snow, 
 
 She liardly knew 
 She was a woman, so 
 
 Sweetly she grew. 
 
 Coffin-board, heavy stone. 
 
 Lie on her breast, 
 I vex my heart alone 
 
 She is at rest. 
 
 Peace, peace, she cannot hear 
 
 Lyre or sonnet. 
 All my life's buried here, 
 
 Heap eartli upon it. 
 
 Richard Henry Wilde. 
 
 MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 
 
 My life is like the summer rose 
 
 That opens to the morning sky, 
 But ere the shades of evening close 
 
 Is scattered on the ground — to die. 
 Yet on the rose's humble bed 
 The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
 As if she wept the waste to see, — 
 But none shall weep a tear for me ! 
 
 My life is like the autumn leaf. 
 
 That trembles in tlie moon's pale 
 ray! 
 Its hold is frail, its date is brief; 
 
 Restless, and soon to pass away ! 
 Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
 The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
 The winds bewail the leafless tree, — 
 But none shall breathe a sigh for me I 
 
 My life is like the prints which feet 
 Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
 
 All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
 Yet, as if grieving to efface 
 All vestige of the human race. 
 On that lone shore loud moans the 
 
 sea, — 
 But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 
 
 TO THE MOCKING BIRD. 
 
 AVinged mimic of the woods I thou 
 motley fool ! 
 
 Who shall thy gay buffoonery de- 
 scribe ? 
 
 Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 
 
 Pursue thy fellows still with jest and 
 gibe: 
 
 Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy 
 tribe, 
 
 Thou sportive satirist of Nature's 
 school ; 
 
 To thee, the palm of scoffing, we as- 
 cribe, 
 
 Arch-mocker and mad abbot of mis- 
 rule ! 
 
 For such thou art by day — but all 
 night long 
 
 Thou pour' St a soft, sweet, pensive, 
 solemn, strain, 
 
 As if thou didst, in this thy moon- 
 light song. 
 
 Like to the melancholy Jacques com- 
 plain, — 
 
 Musing on falsehood, folly, sin, and 
 wrong. 
 
 And sighing for thy motley coat 
 again. 
 
650 
 
 WILLIAMS — WILLIS. 
 
 Helen Maria Williams. 
 
 WHILST THEE I SEEK. 
 
 Whilst Thee 1 seek, protecting 
 Power ! 
 
 Be my vain wislies stilled ; 
 And may this consecrated liour 
 
 Witli better hopes be tilled. 
 
 Tlay love the power of thought be- 
 stowed, — 
 
 'J'o Thee my thoughts would soar : 
 Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed; 
 
 That mercy I adore. 
 
 In each event of life, how clear 
 
 Thy ruling hand I see ! 
 Each blessing to my soul most dear. 
 
 Because conferred by Thee. 
 
 In every joy that crowns my days. 
 
 In every pain I bear. 
 My heart sliall find deliglit in praise, 
 
 Or seek relief in prayer. 
 
 When gladness wings my favored 
 hour. 
 Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 
 Resigned, when storms of sorrow 
 lower, 
 My soul shall meet Thy will. 
 
 My lifted eye, without a tear, 
 The gathering storm sliall see ; 
 
 My steadfast heart shall know no 
 fear; 
 That heart will rest on Thee. 
 
 SOXNET TO HOPE. 
 
 On, ever skilled to wear tlie form we 
 
 love. 
 To bid the shapes of fear and grief 
 
 depart, — 
 Come, gentle Hope! with one gay 
 
 smile remove 
 Tlie lasting sadness of an aching 
 
 heart. 
 Thy voice, benign enchantress! let 
 
 me hear; 
 Say that for me some pleasures yet 
 
 shall bloom; 
 That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's 
 
 precious tear, 
 Shall soften or shall chase misfor- 
 
 tiuie's gloom. 
 But come not glowing in the dazzling 
 
 ray 
 Which once with dear illusions 
 
 charmed my eye; 
 Oh, strew no more, sweet flatterer, 
 
 on my way 
 The flowers I fondly thought too 
 
 l)right to die. 
 Visions less fair will soothe my pen- 
 sive breast. 
 That asks not happiness, but longs 
 
 for rest. 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 TO A CITY PIGEON. 
 
 Stoop to my window, thou beautiful 
 
 dove ! 
 Tliy daily visits have touched my love. 
 I watcli thy coming, and list the note 
 That stirs so low in thy mellow 
 throat. 
 
 And my joy is high 
 To catch the glance of thy gentle eye. 
 
 Why dost thou sit on the heated 
 eaves. 
 
 And forsake the wood with its fresh- 
 ened leaves ? 
 
 Why dost thou liaunt the sultry 
 street. 
 
 When the paths of the forest are cool 
 and sweet ? 
 How canst thou bear 
 
 This noise of people — this sultry air ? 
 
Thou alone of the feathered race 
 Dost look unscared on the human 
 
 face; 
 Thou alone, with a wing to flee, 
 Dost love Avith man in his haunts 
 
 to be; 
 And the " gentle dove" 
 Has become a name for trust and 
 
 love. 
 
 A holy gift is thine, sweet bird! 
 
 Thou'rt named with childhood's ear- 
 liest word ! 
 
 Thou'rt linked with all that is fresh 
 and wild 
 
 In the prisoned thoughts of the city 
 child; 
 And thy glossy wings 
 
 Are its brightest image of moving 
 things. 
 
 It is no light chance. Thou art set 
 
 apart. 
 Wisely by Him who has tamed thy 
 
 heart, 
 To stir the love for the bright and 
 
 fair 
 Tliat else were sealed in this crowded 
 
 air; 
 I sometimes dream 
 Angelic rays from thy pinions stream. 
 
 Come, then, ever, when daylight 
 
 leaves 
 The page I read, to my humble 
 
 eaves. 
 And wash thy breast in the hollow 
 
 spout, 
 And nun-mur thy low sweet music 
 
 out! 
 I hear and see 
 Lessons of heaven, sweet bird, in 
 
 thee! 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOOX. 
 
 I LOVE to look on a scene like 
 this. 
 Of wild and careless play. 
 And persuade myself that I am not 
 old. 
 And my locks are not yet gray; 
 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's 
 heart, 
 
 And )nakes his pulses fly. 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore 
 years ; 
 And they say that I am old, 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper. 
 Death, 
 And my years are well-nigh told. 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I'm old, and '* I 'bide my time:" 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like 
 this, 
 xYnd I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring: 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring 
 jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless 
 swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay. 
 
 And 1 whoop the smothered call, 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy Hoor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die Mhen my time 
 shall come. 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world at best is a weary place. 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart 
 will fail 
 In treading its gloomy way; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreari- 
 ness 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
 ON THE PICTURE OF A " CHILD 
 TIRED OF PL A F." 
 
 TiKED of play ! tired of play ! 
 
 What hast thou done this livelong 
 day ? 
 
 The birds are silent, and so is the bee; 
 
 The sun is creeping up steeple and 
 tree ; 
 
 The doves have flown to the shelter- 
 ing eaves. 
 
 And the nests are dark with the 
 drooping leaves; 
 
652 
 
 WILLIS. 
 
 Twilight gathers, and day is done — 
 How hastthou spent it — restless one ? 
 
 Playing ? Bnt what hast thon done 
 beside, 
 
 To tell thy mother at eventide? 
 
 What promise of morn is left un- 
 broken ? 
 
 What kind word to thy playmate 
 spoken ? 
 
 Whom hast thou pitied, and whom 
 forgiven ? 
 
 How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
 
 What hast thou learned by field and 
 hill. 
 
 By greenwood path, and by singing 
 rill '? 
 
 There will come an eve to a longer 
 
 day, 
 That will find thee tired — but not of 
 
 play? 
 And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest 
 
 now. 
 With drooping limbs and aching 
 
 brow, 
 And wish the shadows would faster 
 
 creep. 
 And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
 AVell \vere it then if thine aching 
 
 bi-ow 
 Were as free from sin and shame as 
 
 now ! 
 
 Well for thee if thy lip could tell 
 
 A tale like this of a day spent 
 well ; 
 
 If thine open hand hath relieved dis- 
 tress. 
 
 If thy j)ity hath sprung to wretched- 
 ness; 
 
 If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 
 
 And humbled thy heart with peni- 
 tence; 
 
 If Nature's voices have spoken to 
 thee 
 
 With her holy meanings eloquently ; 
 
 If every creature hath won thy love. 
 From the creeping worm to the brood- 
 ing dove ; 
 If never a sad, low-spoken word 
 Hath plead with thy human heart 
 unheard, — 
 
 Then, when the night steals on, as 
 
 now. 
 It will bring relief to thine aching 
 
 brow. 
 And, with joy and jieace at the 
 
 thought of rest. 
 Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy 
 
 motlier's breast. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE CHAMPION 
 OF HIS CLASS. 
 
 Ye've gathered to your place of 
 prayer 
 
 With slow and measured tread : 
 Your ranks are full, your mates all 
 there — 
 
 But the soul of one has fled. 
 He was the proudest in his strength. 
 
 The manliest of ye all; 
 Why lies he at that fearf u.l length. 
 
 And ye around his pall ? 
 
 Ye reckon it in days, since he 
 
 Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
 With his dark eye flashing gloriously, 
 
 And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
 Oh, had it been but told you then. 
 
 To mark wliose lamp was dim — 
 From out yon rank of fresh-lipped 
 men. 
 
 Would ye have singled him ? 
 
 Whose was the sinewy arm that flung 
 
 Defiance to the ring ? 
 Whose laugh of victory loudest rung — 
 
 Yet not for glorying ? 
 AVhose heart, in generous deed and 
 thought. 
 
 No rivalry might brook. 
 And yet distinction claiming not ? 
 
 There lies he — go and look! 
 
 On now — his requiem is done. 
 
 The last deep prayer is said — 
 On to his burial, conn-ades — on, 
 
 With a friend and brother dead! 
 Slow — for it presses heavily — 
 
 It is a man ye bear! 
 Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily 
 
 On the gallant sleeper there. 
 
WILLIS. 
 
 653 
 
 Tread lightly, comrades ! — we have 
 laid 
 
 His dark locks on his brow — 
 Like life — save deeper light and 
 shade : 
 
 We'll not disturb them now. 
 Tread lightly — for 'tis beautiful, 
 
 That blue-veined eyelid's sleep, 
 Hiding the eye, death left so dull — 
 
 Its shimber we will keep. 
 
 Eest now ! his journeying is done — 
 
 Your feet are on his sod — 
 Death's blow has felled your cham- 
 pion — 
 
 He waiteth here his God. 
 Ay — turn and weep — 'tis manliness 
 
 To be heart-broken here — 
 For the grave of one, the best of us, 
 
 Is watered by the tear. 
 
 ro GIULIA GUIS I. 
 
 AFTER HEARING HER IN "ANNA BO- 
 LENA." 
 
 "When the rose is brightest, 
 
 Its bloom will soonest die; 
 When burns the meteor l)rightest, 
 
 'Twill vanish from the sky. 
 If Death but wait until delight 
 
 O'errun the heart, like wine. 
 And break the cup when brimming 
 
 qtiite, 
 1 die — for thou hast poured to-night 
 
 The last drop into mine. 
 
 UNSEEN SPIRITS. 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway, 
 'Twas near the twilight-tide — 
 
 And slowly there a lady fair 
 Was walking in her pride. 
 
 Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, 
 Walked spirits at her side. 
 
 Peace charmed the street beneath her 
 feet, 
 
 And Honor charmed the air; 
 And all astir looked kind on her, 
 
 And called her good as fair — 
 For all God ever gave to her 
 
 yiie kept with chary care. 
 
 She kept with care her beauties rare 
 From lovers warm and true — 
 
 For her heart was cold to all but 
 gold. 
 And the rich came not to woo — 
 
 But honored well are charms to sell 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was one more 
 fair — 
 A slight girl, lily-pale; 
 And she had Unseen company 
 To make the spirit quail — 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked 
 forlorn, 
 xVnd nothing could avail. 
 
 No mercy now can clear her brow 
 For this world's peace to pray; 
 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved 
 in air. 
 Her womafi's heart gave way! — 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in 
 heaven 
 By man is cursed alway ! 
 
 THE BELFRY PIGEON. 
 
 Ox the cross-beam under the Old 
 
 South bell 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded 
 
 well. 
 In summer and winter that bird is 
 
 there. 
 Out and in with the morning air: 
 I love to see him track the street. 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he springs, 
 Circling the steeple with easy M'ings, 
 Till across the dial his shade has 
 
 passed. 
 And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding 
 
 note. 
 And the trembling throb in its mot- 
 tled throat; 
 There's a human look in its swelling 
 
 breast. 
 And the gentle curve of its lowly 
 
 crest; 
 And 1 often stop with the fear I feel — 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
G54 
 
 WILLIS. 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisv 
 
 bell — 
 Chime of the hour or funeral knell — 
 The dove in the belfry must hear it 
 
 well. 
 When the tongue swings out to the 
 
 midnight moon — 
 When the sexton cheerily rings for 
 
 noon — 
 AVhen the clock strikes clear at morn- 
 ing light, 
 When the child is waked with '• nine 
 
 at night ■' — 
 When the chimes jilay soft in the 
 
 Sabbath air, 
 Filling the spirit with tones of prayer; 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard. 
 He broods on his folded feet unstirred. 
 Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
 He takes the time to smooth his breast. 
 Then drops again with tilmed eyes. 
 And sleeps as the last vihration dies. 
 
 Sweet bird ! 1 would that I could be 
 A hermit in the crowd like thee! 
 AVitli wings to fly to wood and glen. 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast M'ith men; 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 1 tread, like thee, the crowded street; 
 But, unlike thee, when day is o'er, 
 Thou canst dismiss the world and 
 
 soar. 
 Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
 Canst smooth the feathers on thy 
 
 breast, 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 FROM '^ ABSALOM." 
 
 "Alas! my noble boy! that thou 
 shouidst die! 
 Thou, who wert made so beauti- 
 fully fair! 
 That Death should settle in thy glo- 
 I'ious eye, 
 And leave his stillness in this clus- 
 tering hair! 
 
 How could he mark thee for the silent 
 tomb ? 
 My proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am 
 chill, 
 As to my bosom I have t ricd to picss 
 thee ! 
 How was 1 \\ont to feel mv pulses 
 thrill. 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to 
 caress thee. 
 And hear thy sweet ' my father ! ' 
 from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 '■ But death is on thee. I shall hear 
 the gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the 
 young; 
 And life will pass me in the mantling 
 blush. 
 And the dark tresses to the soft 
 M'inds flung; — 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet 
 voice, shalt come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 "And oh! when I am stricken, and 
 my heart. 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be 
 broken. 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart. 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last 
 deep token ! 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gath- 
 ering gloom. 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to 
 give thee up. 
 With death so like a gentle slum- 
 ber on thee ; — 
 And thy dark sin! — Oh! I could 
 drink the cup. 
 If from this woe its bitterness had 
 won thee. 
 May God have called thee, like a wan- 
 derer, home, 
 My lost boy, Absalom!" 
 
FORCEYTHE WiLLSON. 
 
 THE OLD SERGEANT. 
 
 " Come a little nearer, doctor, — thank yon, — let me take the cup; 
 Draw your chair up, — draw it closer, — just another little sup! 
 May be you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well used up, — 
 Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a going up! 
 
 " Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to try '' — 
 " Never say that." said the surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh; 
 " It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die! " 
 
 " What you say will make no difference, doctor, when you come to die. 
 
 '• Doctor, what has been the matter ? " " You were very faint, they say; 
 You must try to get to sleep now." "Doctor, have I been away ? " 
 " Not that anybody knows of ! " " Doctor. — Doctor, please to stay! 
 There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long to stay! 
 
 '■ I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to go; 
 Doctor, did you say I fainted "? — but it couldn't ha' been so. — 
 For as sure as I'm a sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloli. 
 
 I've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh! 
 
 " This is all that I remember: The last time the lighter came. 
 And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the same. 
 He had not been gone five minutes before something called my name : 
 ' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — just that way it called my name. 
 
 " And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow, 
 Knew it couldn't be the lighter. — he could not have spoken so, — 
 And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir! ' but I couldn't make it go; 
 For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it go! 
 
 " Then I thought: It's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a bore: 
 Just another foolish grapevine, — and it Mon't come any more; 
 But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as before : 
 ' Orderly Sergeant — Robert Burton ! ' — even plainer than before: 
 
 " That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light, 
 And I stood beside the river, where we stood that Sunday night, 
 Waiting to be ferried over to the dark l)luffs opposite. 
 When the river was perdition and all hell Mas opposite! 
 
 " And the same old palpitation came again in all its power. 
 And I heard a bugle sounding, as from some celestial tower; 
 And the same mysterious voice said: ' It is the eleventh hour! 
 Oi'derly Sei-geant — Robert Burton — it is the eleventh hour ! ' 
 
 " Doctor Austin ! what day is this ? " " It is Wednesday night, you know." 
 " Yes, — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right good time l)elow! 
 What time is it. Doctor Austin ? " " Nearly tM'elve." *' Then don't you go ! 
 Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an hour ago ? 
 
656 WILLSON. 
 
 " There was where the gunboats opened on the dark rebelHous host; 
 And where Webster seniicircled his last guns upon the coast ; 
 There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their ghost, — 
 And the same old transport came and took me over — or its ghost ! 
 
 " And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide; 
 There was where they fell on Prentiss, — there McClernand met the tide; 
 There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurlljurt's heroes died, — 
 Lower down, where AVallace charged them, and kept charging till he died. 
 
 " There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the canny kin. 
 There was Mhere old Nelson thundered, and where liousseau waded in; 
 There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and mc all began to win. — 
 There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began to win. 
 
 " Now a shrond of snow and silence over everything was spread; 
 And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head, 
 I should not. have even doubted, to this moment, I was dead. — 
 For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead ! 
 
 "Death and silence! — Death and silence! all aroimd me as I sped! 
 And behold, a mighty tower, as if builded to the dead. 
 To the heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty head. 
 
 Till the Stars and Stripes of heaven all seemed waving from its head ! 
 
 " Round and mighty-based it towered, — up into the infinite, — 
 And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright ; 
 For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding-stair of light 
 Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight ! 
 
 " And, behold, as I approached it, with a rapt and dazzled stare, — 
 Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great stair, 
 Suddenly the solemn challenge broke, of — ' Halt, and who goes there!' 
 ' Fni a friend,' I said, ' if you are.' ' Then advance, sir, to the stair! ' 
 
 "I advanced! That sentry, doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne! — 
 Fii'st of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line! — 
 'Welcome, my old sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that countersign!' 
 And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine! 
 
 " As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave; 
 But he smiled and "pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive; 
 ' That's the way, sir, to headquarters.' What headquarters ? • Of the brave.' 
 ' But the great tower ? ' ' That,' he answered, ' is the way, sir, of the 
 brave ! ' 
 
 "■ Then a sudden shame came o'er me, at his uniform of light; 
 At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright: 
 ' Ah ! ' said he, ' you have f oi'gotten the new imiform to-night, — 
 Hun-y back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night!' 
 
 " And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there, and I — 
 Doctor, — did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! — God bless you all ! Good-by ! 
 Doctor, please to give my nuisket and my kna])sack, when I die. 
 To my son — my son that's coming, — he won't get here till 1 die ! 
 
" Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did before, — 
 And to carry that old musket " — Hark! a knock is at the door! — 
 " Till the Union " — See ! it opens ! — " Father ! Father! speak once more ! " 
 " Bless you! "' gasped the old, gray sergeant, and he lay and said no more! 
 
 JcHN Wilson ^Christopher North.) 
 
 THE EVENING CLOUD. 
 
 A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting 
 
 sun, 
 A gleam of crimson tinged its braided 
 
 snow : 
 Long had I watched the glory moving 
 
 on 
 O'er the still radiance of the lake 
 
 below. 
 Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated 
 
 slow ! 
 Even in its very motion there was 
 
 rest; 
 While every breath of eve that 
 
 chanced to blow 
 Wafted the traveller to the beauteous 
 
 \\est. 
 Emblem, methought, of the departed 
 
 soul. 
 To whose white robe the gleam of 
 
 bliss is given; 
 And by the breath of mercy made to 
 
 roll 
 Right onwards to the golden gates of 
 
 heaven, 
 Where to the eye of faith it peaceful 
 
 lies. 
 And tells to man his glorious desti- 
 nies. 
 
 [From the Isle of Palms.'] 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 But list ! a low and moaning sound 
 At distance heard, like a spirit's song, 
 And now it reigns above, aromul, 
 As if it called the ship along. 
 The moon is sunk; and a clouded 
 
 Sray 
 Declares that her course is run, 
 
 And like a god who brings the day, 
 
 Up mounts the glorious sun. 
 
 Soon as his light has warmed the 
 
 seas, 
 From the parting cloud fi'esh blows 
 
 the breeze; 
 And that is the spirit whose well- 
 known song 
 Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. 
 No fears hath she ; her giant form 
 O'er wrathful surge, through black- 
 ening storm. 
 Majestically calm would go 
 'Mid the deep darkness white as 
 
 snow ! 
 But gently now the small waves 
 
 glide 
 Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's 
 
 side. 
 So stately her bearing, so proud her 
 
 array. 
 The main she will traverse for ever 
 
 and aye. 
 ^lany ports will exult at the gleam 
 
 of her mast ; — 
 Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this 
 
 hour is her last. 
 Five hundred souls in one instant of 
 
 dread 
 Are hurried o'er the deck; 
 And fast the miserable ship 
 Becomes a lifeless wreck. 
 Her keel hath struck on a hidden 
 
 rock. 
 Her' planks are torn asunder, 
 And down come her masts with a 
 
 reeling shock. 
 And a hideous crash like thunder. 
 Her sails are draggled in the brine. 
 
 That glatldened late the skies, 
 And her pennant, that kissed the fair 
 
 moonshine, 
 Down many a fathom lies. 
 
Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow 
 hues 
 Gleamed softly from below, 
 And flung a warm and sunny flush 
 O'er the Avreaths of murmuring 
 snow, 
 To the coral-rock are hurrying down. 
 To sleep amid colors as bright as their 
 
 own. 
 Oh ! many a dream was in the ship 
 
 An hour before her death ; 
 And sights of home with sighs dis- 
 turbed 
 The sleeper's long-drawn breath. 
 Instead of the murmur of tlie sea, 
 The sailor heard the humming-tree 
 
 Alive tlirough all its leaves, 
 The hum of the spi-eading sycamore 
 That grows before Ins cottage door, 
 And the swallow's song in the 
 eaves. 
 His arms enclosed a blooming boy, 
 Who listened with tears of sorrow 
 and joy 
 To the dangers his father had 
 passed ; 
 And his wife — by turns she wept 
 and smiled, 
 
 As she looked on the father of her 
 child, 
 Returned to her heart at last. 
 He wakes at the vessel's sudden 
 
 roll 
 And the rush of waters is in his 
 
 soul. 
 Astounded, the reeling deck he paces, 
 'Mid hurrying forms and ghastly 
 faces ; 
 The whole ship's crew are there! 
 Wailing around and overhead. 
 Brave spirits stupefied or dead, 
 And madness and despair. 
 
 Now is the ocean's bosom bare, 
 Unbroken as the floating air; 
 The ship hath melted quite away. 
 Like a struggling dream at break of 
 
 day. 
 Xo image meets my wandering eye, 
 But the new-risen sun and the sunny 
 
 sky. 
 Though the night-shades are gone, 
 
 yet a vapor dull 
 Bedims the waves so beautiful: 
 While a low and melancholy moan 
 Mourns for the glory that hath flown. 
 
 William Winter. 
 
 THE WHITE FLAG. 
 
 Brino poppies for a weary mind 
 That saddens in a senseless din, 
 
 And let my spirit leave behind 
 A world of riot and of sin, — 
 
 In action's torpor deaf and blind. 
 
 Bring poppies — that I may forget! 
 
 Bring poppies — that I may not 
 leai'n! 
 But bid the audacious sun to set. 
 
 And bid the peaceful starlight burn 
 O'er biu'ied memory and regret. 
 
 Then will the slumberous grasses grow 
 Above the bed wherein I sleep; 
 
 While winds 1 love will softly blow, 
 And dews I love will softly weep. 
 
 O'er rest and silence hid beiovi% 
 
 Bring poppies, — for this work is 
 vain ! 
 
 I cannot mould the clay of life. 
 A stronger hand must grasp the rein, 
 
 A stouter arm annul the strife. 
 A braver heart defy the pain. 
 
 Youth was my friend, — but Youth 
 had wings. 
 
 And he has flown unto the day. 
 And left me. in a night of things. 
 
 Bewildered, on a lonesome way. 
 And careless what the future brings. 
 
 Let there be sleep! nor any more 
 The noise of useless deed or word : 
 
 While the free spirit hovers o'er 
 A sea where not a sound is heard — 
 
 A sea of dreams, without a shore. 
 
WINTER. 
 
 659 
 
 Dark Angel, counselling defeat, 
 1 see thy mournful, tender eyes: 
 
 I hear thy voice, so faint, so sweet, 
 And very dearly should I prize 
 
 Thy perfect peace, thy rest complete. 
 
 But is it rest to vanish hence, 
 
 To mix w ith earth, or sea, or air ? 
 
 Is death indeed a full defence 
 Against the tyranny of care ? 
 
 Or is it cruellest pretence ? 
 
 And, if an hour of peace draws nigh, 
 Shall we, who know the arts of war, 
 
 Turn from the field and basely fly. 
 Nor take what fate reserves us for, 
 
 Because we dream 'twere sw-eet to 
 die? 
 
 What shall the untried warriors do. 
 If we, the battered veterans, fail ? 
 
 How strive, and suffer, and be true. 
 In storms that make our spirits 
 quail. 
 
 Except our valor lead them through ? 
 
 Though for ourselves we droop and 
 tire, 
 
 Let us at least for them be strong. 
 'Tis but to bear familiar fire: 
 
 Life at the longest is not long. 
 And peace at last will crown desire. 
 
 So Death, T will not hear thee speak! 
 
 But I will labor — and endure 
 All storms of pain that time can 
 wreak. 
 
 IVly flag be white because 'tis )nu-e. 
 And not because my soul is weak ! 
 
 HOMAGE. 
 
 White daisies on the meadow green 
 Present thy beauteous form to me : 
 Peaceful and joyful these are seen. 
 
 And peace and joy encompass thee. 
 I watch them, where they dance and 
 
 shine. 
 And love them — for their charm is 
 thine. 
 
 Red roses o'er the woodland brook 
 Kemember me thy lovely face : 
 
 So blushing and so fresh its look, 
 So wild and shy its radiant grace! 
 
 I kiss them, in their coy retreat. 
 
 And think of lips more soft and 
 sweet. 
 
 Gold arrows of the merry morn, 
 Shot swiftly over orient seas; 
 
 Gold tassels of the bending corn 
 That ripple in the August breeze ; 
 
 Thy wildering smile, thy glorious 
 hair, 
 
 And all thy power and state declare. 
 
 White, red, and gold — the awful 
 crown 
 Of beauty and of virtue too ! 
 From what a height those eyes look 
 down 
 On him who proudly dares to sire ! 
 Yet, free from self as God from sin, 
 Is love that loves, nor asks to win. 
 
 Let me but love thee in the flower, 
 The wavjng grass, the dancing 
 Avave, 
 The fragrant pomp of garden boAver, 
 
 The violet of the nameless grave. 
 Sweet dreams by night, sweet 
 
 thoughts by day, — 
 And time shall tire ere love decay! 
 
 Let me but love thee in the glow 
 When morning on the ocean shines. 
 
 Or in the mighty winds that blow. 
 Snow-laden, through the mountain 
 pines — 
 
 In all that's fair, or grand or dread, 
 
 And all shall die ere love be dead ! 
 
 AFTER ALL. 
 
 The apples are ripe in the orchard. 
 The work of the reaper is done. 
 
 And the golden woodlands redden 
 In the blood of the dying sun. 
 
 At the cottage-door the grandsire 
 Sits, pale, in his easy-chair. 
 
 While a gentle wind of twilight 
 Plavs with his silver hair. 
 
A woman is kneeling beside him; 
 
 A fair young head is prest. 
 In the first wilil passion of sorrow, 
 
 Against his aged breast. 
 
 And far from over the distance 
 The faUering echoes come. 
 
 Of tlie flying blast of trumpet 
 And the rattling roll of ilruni. 
 
 Then the grandsire speaks, in a whis- 
 per, — 
 ' ' The end no man can see ; 
 But we give him to his country. 
 And we give our prayers to 
 Thee."^ 
 
 The violets star the meadows. 
 The rosebuds fringe the door, 
 
 And over the grassy orchard 
 The pink-white blossoms pour. 
 
 But the grandsire' s chair is empty. 
 The cottage is dark and still. 
 
 There's a nameless grave in the bat- 
 tle-field, 
 And a new one under the hill. 
 
 And a pallid, tearless woman 
 By the cold hearth sits alone; 
 
 And the old clock in the corner 
 Ticks on with a steadv drone. 
 
 THE QUESTION. 
 
 Becal'sp; love's sigh is but a sigh. 
 Doth it the less love's heart dis- 
 close ? 
 Because the rose must fade and die. 
 
 Is it the less the lovely rose ? 
 Because black night must shroud the 
 
 day. 
 Shall the brave sun no more be gay ? 
 
 Because chill autumn frights the 
 birds. 
 Shall we distrust that spring will 
 come ? 
 Because sweet words are only words, 
 
 Shall love forevermore be ilumb ? 
 Because our bliss is fleeting bliss. 
 Shall we who love forbear to kiss ? 
 
 Because those eyes of gentle mirth 
 Must some time cease my heart to 
 thrill. 
 
 Because the sweetest voice on earth 
 Sooner or later must be still. 
 
 Because its idol is unsure. 
 
 Shall my strong love the less endure '? 
 
 Ah, no! let lovers breathe their 
 sighs. 
 And roses bloom, and music soimd. 
 And passion burst on lips and eyes. 
 And pleasure's merry world go 
 rounil : 
 Let golden sunshine flood the sky, 
 And let me love, or let me die ! 
 
 WITHERED ROSES. 
 
 Not made by worth, nor marred by 
 flaw. 
 Not won by good, nor lost by ill. 
 Love is its own and only law. 
 
 And lives and dies by its own will. 
 It was our fate, and not our sin, 
 That we should love, and love should 
 win. 
 
 Not bound by oath, nor stayed by 
 prayer. 
 Nor held by thirst of strong desire. 
 Love lives like fragrance in the air. 
 
 And dies as breaking waves expire. 
 'Twas death, not falsehood, bade us 
 
 part, — 
 The death of love that broke my heart. 
 
 Not kind, as dreaming poets think, 
 Nor merciful, as sages say — 
 
 Love heeds not where its victims 
 sink, 
 "\Mien once its passion ebbs away. 
 
 'Twas nature — it was not disdain — 
 
 That made thee careless of my pain. 
 
 Not thralled by law, nor ruled by 
 right. 
 Love keeps no audit with the skies; 
 Its star, that once is quenched in 
 night. 
 Has set — and never more will rise. 
 My soul is lost, by thee forgot; 
 And there's no heaven w^ere thou 
 art not. 
 
But happy he, though scathed and 
 lone, 
 Who sees afar love's fading wings — 
 Whose seared and blighted heart has 
 known 
 The splendid agony it brings! 
 No life that is, no life to be 
 ("an ever take the Past from me! 
 
 lied roses bloom for other lives — 
 Your withered leaves alone are 
 mine; 
 Yet. not for all that Time survives 
 Would I your heavenly gift re- 
 sign — 
 Now cold and dead, once warm and 
 
 true. 
 The love that lived and died in you. 
 
 THE GOLDEN SILENCE. 
 
 What though 1 sing no other song? 
 What though 1 speak no other 
 word ? 
 Is silence shame ? Is patience 
 wrong ? — 
 At least one song of mine was 
 heard : 
 
 One echo from the mountain air. 
 One ocean murmur, glad and free — 
 
 One sign that nothing grand or fair, 
 In ail this world was lost to me. 
 
 I will not wake the sleeping lyre; 
 I will not strain the chords of 
 thought : 
 The sweetest fruit of all desire 
 Comes its own way, and comes un- 
 sought. 
 
 Though all the bards of earth were 
 dead. 
 
 And all their music passed away. 
 What nature wishes should be said 
 
 She'll find the rightful voice to say! 
 
 Iler heart is in the shimmering leaf. 
 The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, 
 
 And all we know of bliss or grief 
 She speaks, in forms that cannot 
 die. 
 
 The mountain peaks that shine afar. 
 The silent stars, the i)athless sea, 
 
 Are living signs of all we are, 
 And types of all we hope to be. 
 
 ./ DUtGK. 
 IX Mli.MOIiV OF POE. 
 
 Cold is the paean honor sings, 
 And chill is glory's icy breath. 
 
 And pale the garland memory brings 
 To grace the iron doors of death. 
 
 Fame's echoing thunders, long and 
 
 loud. 
 
 The pomp of pride that decks the 
 
 pall. 
 
 The plaudits of the vacant crowd — 
 
 One word of love is worth them all ! 
 
 With dew of grief our eyes are dim: 
 Ah, bid the tear of sorrow start; 
 
 And honor, in ourselves and him. 
 The great and tender human heart! 
 
 Through many a night of want and 
 woe 
 His frenzied spirit wandered wild. 
 Till kind disaster laid him low. 
 And love reclaimed its wayward 
 child. 
 
 Through many a year his fame has 
 grown. — 
 Like midnight, vast; like starlight, 
 sweet, — 
 Till now his genius fills a throne. 
 And homage makes his realm com- 
 plete. 
 
 One meed of justice, long delayed. 
 One crowning grace his virtues 
 crave ! 
 Ah, take, thou great and injured 
 shade. 
 The love that sanctifies the grave. 
 
 And may thy spirit, hovering nigh. 
 Pierce the dense cloud of darkness 
 through. 
 And know, with fame that cannot 
 die, 
 Thou hast the world's compassion 
 too! 
 
m'2 
 
 WITHER. 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 HYMN FOR ANNIVERSARY MAR- 
 RIAGE DAYS. 
 
 Lord, living here are we — 
 
 As fast united yet 
 As when our hands and hearts bv 
 Thee 
 
 Together first were knit. 
 And iu a thankful song 
 
 Now sing we will Thy jjraise, 
 For that Thou dost as well prolong 
 
 Our loving, as our days. 
 
 Together we have now 
 
 Begun another year; 
 But how much time Thou wilt allow 
 
 Thou makest it not appear. 
 AVe, therefore, do implore 
 
 That live and love we may. 
 Still so as if but one day more 
 
 Together we should stay. 
 
 Let each of other's wealth 
 
 Preserve a faithful care. 
 And of each otlier's joy and health 
 
 As if one soul we were. 
 Such conscience let us make, 
 
 Each other not to grieve. 
 As if we daily were to take 
 
 Our everlasting leave. 
 
 The frowardness that springs 
 
 From our corrupted kind. 
 Or from those troublous outward 
 things 
 
 Which may distract the mind, 
 Permit Thou not, O Lord, 
 
 Our constant love to shake — 
 Or to disturb our true accord, 
 
 Or make our hearts to ache. 
 
 But let these frailties prove 
 
 Affection's exercise; 
 And let discretion teach our love 
 
 Which wins the noblest prize. 
 So time, which wears away. 
 
 And ruins all things else. 
 Shall fix our love on Thee for aye, 
 
 In whom perfection dwells. 
 
 FROM "POVERTY:-' 
 
 The works my calling doth propose, 
 
 Let me not idly shun ; 
 For he whom idleness undoes. 
 
 Is more than twice undone; 
 If my estate enlarge 1 may, 
 
 Enlarge my love for Thee; 
 And though I more and more decay, 
 
 Yet let me thankful be. 
 
 For be we poor or be we rich, 
 
 If well employed we arc. 
 It neither helps nor hinders much. 
 
 Things needful to prepare; 
 Since God disposeth riches now. 
 
 As manna heretofore. 
 The feeblest gatherer got enow, 
 
 The strongest got no more. 
 
 Nor poverty nor M'ealth is that 
 
 Whereby we may acquire 
 That bleS'Sed and most happy state, 
 
 AVhei-eto we should aspire ; 
 But if Thy Spirit make me wise. 
 
 And strive to do my best. 
 There may be in the Morst of these 
 
 A means of being blessed. 
 
 The rich in love obtain from Thee 
 
 Thy special gifts of gi'ace ; 
 The poor in spirit those men be 
 
 Who shall behold Thy face: 
 Loi'd ! grant I may be one of these. 
 
 Thus poor, or else thus rich ; 
 E'en whether of the two Thou please, 
 
 I care not greatly which. 
 
 FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW. 
 
 How near me came the hand of 
 
 death, 
 AVhen at my side he struck my dear. 
 And took away the precious breath 
 AVhicli quickened my beloved peer! 
 How helpless am I thereby made — 
 By day how grieved, by night how 
 sad 
 And now my life's delight is gone, 
 Alas ! how am I left alone ! 
 
WITHER. 
 
 663 
 
 The voice which I did more esteem 
 Than music in her sweetest key, 
 Those eyes wliicli unto me did seem 
 More comfortable than the day — 
 
 Tliose now by me, as they have 
 been ! 
 
 Sliall never more be heard or seen ; 
 But wliat I once enjoyed in tliem 
 Sliall seem hereafter as a dream. 
 
 All earthly comforts vanish thus — 
 So little hold of them have we 
 That we from them or they from ixs 
 May in a moment ravished be ; 
 Yet we are neither just nor wise 
 If present mercies we despise, 
 Or mind not how there may be made 
 A thankful use of what we had. 
 
 I therefore do not so bemoan, 
 Though these beseeming tears I drop, 
 The loss of my beloved one 
 As they that are deprived of hope; 
 But in expressing of my grief 
 My heart receiveth some relief, 
 And joyeth in the good I had, 
 Although my sweets are bitter made. 
 
 Lord, keep me faithful to the trust 
 Which my dear spouse reposed in me ! 
 To him now dead preserve me just 
 In all that should performed be; 
 For though oiu- being man and wife 
 Extendetli only to this life, 
 Yet neither life nor death should end 
 The being of a faithful f rienil. 
 
 Those helps which I through him en- 
 joyed, 
 Let Thy continual aid supply — 
 That, though some hopes in him are 
 
 void, 
 I always may on Thee rely; 
 And whether I shall wed again, 
 Or in a single' state remain, 
 
 Unto Thine honor let it be, 
 And for a blessing unto me. 
 
 FOn A SERVANT. 
 
 Discourage not thyself, my soul, 
 Nor murnuu-, though compelled we be 
 To live subjected to control ! 
 When many others may be free ; 
 For though the pride of some dis- 
 dains 
 Our mean and nuich despised lot. 
 We shall not lose our honest pains, 
 Xor shall our sufferance be forgot. 
 
 To be a servant is not base. 
 
 If baseness be not in the mind, 
 
 For servants make but good the place, 
 
 Whereto their Maker them assigned: 
 
 The greatest princes do no more. 
 
 And if sincerely I obey. 
 
 Though I am now despised and poor, 
 
 I shall become as great as they. 
 
 The Lord of heaven and earth was 
 
 pleased 
 A servant's form to undertake; 
 By His endurance I am eased. 
 And serve with gladness for His sake: 
 Though checked unjustly I should be. 
 With silence I reproofs Mill bear. 
 For much more injured was He 
 Whose deeds most worthy praises 
 
 were. 
 
 He was reviled, yet navight replied. 
 And I will imitate the same; 
 For though some faults may be de- 
 nied. 
 In part I always faulty am : 
 Content with meek and humble heart, 
 I will abide in my degree. 
 And act an humble servant's part. 
 Till God shall call me to be free. 
 
(564 
 
 WULCOT— WOLFE. 
 
 John Wolcot (Peter Pindar). 
 
 TO MY CANDLE. 
 
 Thou lone companion of the spec- 
 tred night ! 
 
 I wake amid thy friendly Avatchful 
 light. 
 To steal a precious hour from life- 
 less sleep. 
 
 Hark, the wild uproar of the winds ! 
 and hark! [the dark, 
 
 Hell's genius roams the regions of 
 And swells the thundering horrors 
 of the deep ! 
 
 From cloud to cloud the pale moon 
 hurrying flies, 
 
 Now blackened, and now flashing 
 
 through the skies ; [beam. 
 
 But all is silence here, beneath thy 
 
 I own 1 lal)or for the voice of praise — 
 For who would sink in dull obliv- 
 ion's stream ? 
 
 Who would not live in songs of dis- 
 tant days ? 
 
 How slender now, alas! thy thread 
 of fire ! 
 
 All! falling — falling — ready to ex- 
 pire ! 
 
 In vain thy struggles, all will soon be 
 o'er. 
 
 At life thou snatchest with an eager 
 leap; 
 
 Now round I see thy flame so feeble 
 creep. 
 Faint, lessening, quivering, glim- 
 mering, now no more ! 
 
 Thus shall the suns of science sink 
 away. 
 And thus of beauty fade the fairest 
 flower — 
 
 For Where's the giant who to Time 
 shall say, 
 "Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy 
 power! *' 
 
 Charles Wolfe. 
 
 TO MARY. 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have 
 died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side. 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be: 
 It never through my mind had passed 
 
 Tlie time would e'er be o'er, 
 And I on thee should look my last. 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more! 
 
 And still upon that face I look. 
 And think 'twill smile again; 
 
 And still the thought I wilTnot brook, 
 Tliat 1 must look in vain ! 
 
 But when 1 speak, thou dost not say 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 
 
 And now I feel, as well I may, 
 Sweet Mary ! thou art dead ! 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art. 
 
 All cold and all serene — 
 I still might press thy silent heart, 
 
 And where thy smiles have been ! 
 While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I 
 have, 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own; 
 But there I lay thee in thy grave — 
 
 And I am noAV alone ! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art. 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I, perhaps, may soothe this 
 heart. 
 
 In thinking too of thee: 
 
WOLFE. 
 
 GG5 
 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 Of light ne'er seen before, 
 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 And never can restore ! 
 
 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral 
 note. 
 As his corse to the rampart we 
 hurried ; 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell 
 shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we 
 buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly, at dead of 
 night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turn- 
 ing; 
 By the struggling moonbeams' misty 
 light. 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 
 
 Not in sheet or in shroud we wound 
 
 him; 
 
 But he lay, like a warrior taking his 
 
 rest, 
 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we 
 said, 
 And we spoke not a word of sor- 
 row ; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face 
 of the dead. 
 And we bitterly thought of the 
 morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollowed his nar- 
 row bed. 
 And smoothed down his lonely pil- 
 low. 
 That the foe and the stranger would 
 tread o'er his liead. 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's 
 
 gone, I him; 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid 
 
 But little he'll reck, if they let him 
 sleep on 
 In the grave where a Briton has 
 laid him! 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done. 
 When the clock struck the hour 
 for retiring; 
 And we heard the distant and ran- 
 dom gun 
 That the foe was sullenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 
 From the field of his fame fresh 
 and gory! 
 We carved not a line, and we raised 
 not a stone. 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 GO. FORGET ME. 
 
 Go, forget me — why should sorrow 
 
 O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 
 Go, forget me — and to-morrow 
 
 Brightly smile and sweetly sing. 
 Smile — though I shall not be near 
 
 thee. 
 Sing, though I shall never hear thee ; 
 May thy soul with pleasure shine 
 Lasting as the gloom of mine. 
 
 Like the sun, thy presence glowing. 
 
 Clothes tlie meanest things in light; 
 And when thou, like him, art going. 
 
 Loveliest objects fade in night. 
 All things looked so bright aliout 
 
 thee, 
 That they nothing seem without 
 thee ; 
 By that pure and lucid mind 
 Earthly things were too, refined. 
 
 Go. thou vision, wildly gleaming. 
 
 Softly on my soul that fell; 
 Go, for me no longer beaming — 
 Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 
 Go, and all that once delighted 
 Take, and leave me ail benighted — 
 Glory's burning, genei'ous swell, 
 Fancy, and the poet's shell. 
 
WOODWORTH— WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Samuel Woodworth. 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes 
 of my childhood, 
 
 When fond recollection presents them 
 to view! — 
 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep- 
 tangled wildwood, 
 
 And every loved spot which my in- 
 fancy knew! 
 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the 
 mill that stood hy it; 
 
 The bridge, and the rock where the 
 cataract fell ; 
 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house 
 nigh it; 
 
 And e'en the rude bucket that hung 
 in the well — [bucket. 
 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 The moss-covered bucket which hung 
 in the well. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hailed as 
 
 a treasure ; 
 For often at noon, Avhen returned 
 
 from the field, 
 I foiuid it the source of an exquisite 
 
 pleasure — 
 The purest and sweetest that nature 
 
 can yield 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands 
 
 that were glowing. 
 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bot- 
 tom it fell ! 
 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth 
 overflowing, 
 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose 
 from the well — 
 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 bucket. 
 
 The moss-covered bucket, arose from 
 the well. 
 
 How sweet from the green, mossy 
 
 brim to receive it, 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to 
 
 my lips! 
 Not a full, blushing goblet could 
 
 tempt me to leave it. 
 The brightest that beauty or revelry 
 
 sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved 
 
 habitation, 
 The tear of regret will intrusively 
 
 swell. 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plan- 
 tation. 
 And sighs for the bucket that hangs 
 
 in the well — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket that hangs 
 
 in the well ! 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 [From Lines Compnued a Few Miles Above 
 Tinteni Abbey.] 
 
 THE SOLACE OF NATURE. 
 
 Though absent lon^,, 
 These forms of beauty have not been 
 
 to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's 
 
 eye: 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid 
 
 the din 
 Of tOM-ns and cities, T have owed to 
 
 them. 
 
 In hours of weariness, sensations 
 
 sweet. 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the 
 
 heart ; 
 And passing even into my purer 
 
 mind. 
 With tranquil restoration: feelings 
 
 too 
 Of unremembered pleasure; such, 
 
 perhaps. 
 As may have had no trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's 
 
 life. 
 
THE OLD 
 
 Page 666. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 His little, nameless, unremembered 
 
 acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, 
 
 1 trust, 
 To them I may have owed another 
 
 gift, 
 Of aspect more sublime; that blessed 
 
 mood, 
 In which the burden of the mystery. 
 In which the heavy and the weary 
 
 weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world 
 Is lightened ; that serene and blessed 
 
 mood, 
 In which the affections gently lead 
 
 us on, — 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal 
 
 frame, • 
 
 And even the motion of our human 
 
 blood. 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the 
 
 power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of 
 
 joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 I have learned 
 
 To look on Nature, not as in the 
 hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth; but hearing 
 oftentimes 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 
 Not harsh nor grating, thougli of 
 ample power 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have 
 felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the 
 Joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts: a sense sub- 
 lime 
 
 Of something far more deeply inter- 
 fused , 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting 
 suns. 
 
 And the round ocean and the living 
 air. 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind 
 of man: 
 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all 
 thought. 
 
 And rolls through all things. 
 
 [From Lines Composed a Fetv Miles Above 
 Tintern Abbei/.] 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO THE POET'S 
 SIS TEli. 
 
 Thou art with me, here, upon the 
 banks 
 
 Of this fair river; thou, my dearest 
 friend. 
 
 My dear, dear friend, and in thy 
 voice I catch 
 
 The language of my former heart, 
 and read 
 
 My former pleasures in the shooting 
 lights 
 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little 
 while 
 
 May I behold in thee what I was 
 once, 
 
 My dear, dear sister! And this 
 prayer I make. 
 
 Knowing that Nature never did be- 
 tray 
 
 The heart that loved her: 'tis her 
 privilege. 
 
 Through all the years of this our 
 life, to lead 
 
 From joy to joy : for she can so in- 
 form 
 
 The mind that is within us, so im- 
 press 
 
 With quietness and beauty, and so 
 feed 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil 
 tongues. 
 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of 
 seltish men. 
 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, 
 nor all 
 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or dis- 
 turb 
 
 Our cheerful faith that all which we 
 behold 
 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let 
 the moon 
 
 Shine on thee in thy solitaiy walk: 
 
 And let the misty mountain winds be 
 fi'ee 
 
 To blow against thee: and, in after 
 years. 
 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be 
 matured 
 
 Into a sober pleashre, when thy mind 
 
668 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Sliall be a mansion for all lovely 
 
 forms, 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies; 
 
 oh, then. 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 Should be thy portion, with what 
 
 healing thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember 
 
 me, 
 And these my exhortations! nor, 
 
 perchance, 
 If I should be v/liere I no more can 
 
 hear 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild 
 
 eyes these gleams 
 Of past existence, wilt thou then 
 
 forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful 
 
 stream 
 We stood together; and that I, so 
 
 long 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came. 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 With warmer love; oh, with far 
 
 deeper zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then 
 
 forget, 
 That after many wandeiings, many 
 
 years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and 
 
 lofty cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, 
 
 were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and 
 
 for thy sake. 
 
 [Frnni The Excursion.] 
 THE PROP OF FAITH. 
 
 One adequate support 
 For the calamities of mortal life 
 Exists — one only — an assured belief 
 That the procession of our fate, 
 
 however 
 Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a 
 
 Being 
 Of infinite Ijenevolence and power, 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to 
 
 good. 
 The darts of anguish fix not where 
 
 the seat • 
 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly 
 fortified 
 
 By acquiescence in the Will supreme, 
 
 For time and for eternity — by faith, 
 
 Faith absolute in God, including 
 hope. 
 
 And the defence that lies in Ijound- 
 less love 
 
 Of His perfections; with habitual 
 dread 
 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, en- 
 dured 
 
 Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone 
 
 To the dishonor of His holy name. 
 
 Soul of our souls, and safeguard of 
 the world, 
 
 Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of 
 heart ! . 
 
 Restore Iheir languid spirits, and re- 
 call 
 
 Their lost affections unto Thee and 
 Thine! 
 
 [From The Excursion.] 
 UNDEVELOPED GEKIUS. 
 
 Oh, many are the poets that are 
 
 sown 
 By Nature! men endowed with high- 
 est gifts — 
 The vision, and the faculty divine — 
 Yet wanting the accomplishment of 
 
 verse 
 (Which in the docile season of their 
 
 youth 
 It was denied them to acquire, 
 
 through lack 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of 
 
 books ; 
 Or haply by a temper too severe; 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of 
 
 shame). 
 Nor, having e'er as life advanced, 
 
 been led 
 By circumstance to take unto the 
 
 height 
 The measure of themselves, these 
 
 favored beings. 
 All but a scattered few, live out their 
 
 time. 
 Husbanding that which they possess 
 
 within. 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 669 
 
 And go to the grave unthought of. 
 
 Strongest minds 
 Are often those of whom the noisy 
 
 world hears least. 
 
 IFrom The Excursion.] 
 THE DEAF DALESMAN. 
 
 Almost at the root 
 Of that tall pine, the shadow of 
 
 whose bare 
 And slender stem, while here I sit at 
 
 eve, 
 Oft stretches towards me, like a long 
 
 straight path 
 Traced faintly in the greensward; 
 
 there beneath 
 A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman 
 
 lies, 
 Fi'om whom, in early childhood, was 
 
 withdrawn 
 The precious gift of hearing. He 
 
 grew up 
 From year to year in loneliness of 
 
 soul ; 
 And this deep mountain valley was 
 
 to him 
 Somidless, with all its streams. The 
 
 binl of dawn 
 Did never rouse tliis cottager from 
 
 sleep 
 With startling summons; nor for his 
 
 delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for 
 
 him 
 Murmured the laboring bee. When 
 
 stormy winds 
 Were working the broad bosom of 
 
 the lake 
 Into a thousand thousand sparkling 
 
 waves, 
 Hocking the trees, or driving cloud 
 
 on cloud 
 Along the sharp edge of yon lofty 
 
 crags, 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 Was silent as a jiicture : evermore 
 Were all things silent, wheresoe'er 
 
 he moved ; 
 Yet, by the solace of his own pnre 
 
 tlioughts 
 Upheld, he duteously pursued the 
 
 round 
 
 Of rural labors; the steep mountain- 
 side 
 Ascended, with liis staff and faithful 
 
 dog; 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe 
 
 he swayed; 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle 
 
 fell 
 Among the jocund reapers. For 
 
 himself. 
 All watchful and industrious as he 
 
 was. 
 He wrought not; neither flock nor 
 
 field he owned ; 
 Xo wish for wealth had place within 
 
 his mind; 
 Nor husband's love, nor father's hope 
 
 or care. 
 Though born a younger brotlier, need 
 
 was none 
 That from the floor of his paternal 
 
 home 
 He should depart to plant himself 
 
 anew ; 
 And when, mature in manhood, lie 
 
 beheld 
 His parents laid in earth, no loss en- 
 sued 
 Of rights to him; but he remained 
 
 well pleased. 
 By tlie pure bond of independent 
 
 love, 
 An inmate of a second family. 
 Tlie fellow-laborer and friend of him 
 To whom the small inheritance had 
 
 fallen. 
 Nor deem tliat his mild presence was 
 
 a weight 
 That pressed upon his brother's 
 
 house, for books 
 Were ready comrades whom he could 
 
 not tire. 
 Of whose society the blameless man 
 Was never satiate. Their familiar 
 
 voice. 
 Even to old age, with unabated 
 
 charm 
 Beguiled his leisure hours, refreslied 
 
 his thoughts; 
 Beyond its natural elevation, raised 
 His introverted spirit, and bestowed 
 Upon his life an outward dignity 
 Which all acknowledged. The dark 
 
 winter night. 
 
The stormy day, had each its own 
 
 resource ; 
 Song of tlie muses, sage historic tale, 
 Science severe, or word of Holy Writ 
 Announcing immortality and joy 
 To the assembled spirits of the just, 
 From imperfection and decay secure. 
 Thus sootlied at home, thus busy in 
 
 the field. 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave 
 
 way, 
 No languor, peevishness, nor vain 
 
 complaint : 
 And they, who were about him, did 
 
 not fail 
 In reverence, or in courtesy; they 
 
 prized 
 His gentle manners; and his peaceful 
 
 smiles. 
 The gleams of his slow-varying coun- 
 tenance. 
 Were met with answering sym^jathy 
 
 and love. 
 
 At length, when sixty years and 
 five were told, 
 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 
 The powers of nature; and a few 
 short steps 
 
 Of friends and kindred bore him 
 from his home 
 
 (Yon cottage shaded by the woody 
 crags) 
 
 To the profounder stillness of the 
 grave. 
 
 Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
 
 Of many tears, virtuous and thought- 
 ful grief ; 
 
 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by grat- 
 itude. 
 
 And now that monumental stone pre- 
 serves 
 
 His name, and unambitiously relates 
 
 How long, and by what kindly out- 
 Mard aids, 
 
 And in what pure contentedness of 
 mind. 
 
 The sad privation was by him en- 
 dured. 
 
 And yon tall i^ine-tree, whose com- 
 posing sound 
 
 Was wasted on the good man's living 
 ear. 
 
 Hath now its own peculiar sanctity; 
 
 And, at the touch of every wander- 
 ing breeze, 
 
 Mvu'murs, not idly, o'er his peaceful 
 erave. 
 
 FROM "IXTIMATIOyS OF IMMOR- 
 TALITY." 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forget- 
 ting : 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's 
 star, 
 Hatli had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And Cometh from afar; 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we 
 come 
 From God, who is our home: 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to 
 close 
 Upon the growing boy. 
 But he beholds the light, and M'hence 
 it Hows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy; 
 The youth, who daily farther from 
 the east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priesl, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended; 
 At length the man perceives it die 
 
 away, 
 And fade into the light of common 
 day. 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live, 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive! 
 The thought of our past years in me 
 
 doth breed 
 Perpetual benedictions: not indeed 
 For that which is most Avorthy to be 
 
 blessed ; 
 Delight and libeity, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at 
 
 rest. 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering 
 in his l)reast : 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise; 
 
WORD SWOB TE. 
 
 071 
 
 But for those obstinate question- 
 ings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 FalUngs from us, vanishings; 
 Black misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 High instincts, before which our 
 
 mortal natiue 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing sur- 
 prised ! 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those sliadowy recollections, 
 Wliich, be they wliat they may. 
 Are yet the fountain liglit of all our 
 
 day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our 
 seeing; 
 Uphold us — cherisli — and have 
 power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the 
 
 being 
 Of the eternal silence: truths that 
 wake. 
 To perish never; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad 
 endeavor, 
 Xor man nor boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy! 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
 Thougli inland far we be. 
 Our souls have siglit of that immor- 
 tal sea 
 Wliicli brought us hither; 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 And see the children sport upon the 
 
 sliore. 
 And hear the inighty waters rolling 
 evermore. 
 
 TO A YOUXG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG 
 WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Dp:ar child of nature, let them 
 
 rail ! 
 — There is a nest in a green dale, 
 A harbor and a hold. 
 Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt 
 
 see 
 Tliy own delightful days, and be 
 A light to voung and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd-boy. 
 As if thy lieritage were joy. 
 And pleasure were thy trade. 
 Thou, M'hile thy babes around thee 
 
 cling, 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 A woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not 
 
 die, 
 Nor leave thee when gray hairs are 
 
 nigh, 
 A melancholy slave; 
 But an old age serene and bright, 
 And lovely as a Lapland night, 
 .Shall lead thee to thy grave. 
 
 I'HE DAFFODILS. 
 
 I WANDERED louely as a cloud 
 That floats on high o'er vales and 
 
 hills, 
 Wlien all at once I saw a crowd, 
 A host of golden daffodils; 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the Milky Way, 
 Tliey stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay: 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly 
 dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but 
 
 they 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 In such a jocund company : 
 I gazed and gazed, but little thought 
 What wealth the show to me had 
 
 brought. 
 
 For oft when on my couch I lie. 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude. 
 And then my heart with pleasure 
 
 fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
672 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 IlAii,, Twilight, sovereign of one 
 
 peaceful hour! 
 Not dull art thou as undiscerning 
 
 Night; 
 But studious only to remove from 
 
 sight 
 Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient 
 
 power! 
 Thus did the waters gleam, the 
 
 mountains lower 
 To the rude Briton, when, in wolf- 
 skin vest 
 Here roving wild, he laid him down 
 
 to rest 
 On the bare rock, or through a leafy 
 
 bower 
 Looked ere his eyes were closed. By 
 
 him was seen 
 The selfsame vision which we now 
 
 behold. 
 At thy meek bidding, shadowy i^ow- 
 
 er, brought forth ; 
 These mighty barriers, and the gulf 
 
 between ; 
 The floods, — the stars; a spectacle 
 
 as old 
 As the beginning of the heavens and 
 
 earth ! 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass 
 by, 
 
 One after one; the sound of rain, 
 
 and bees 
 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, Minds, 
 
 and seas. 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, 
 
 and pure sky; 
 I've thought of all by turns; and still 
 
 I lie 
 Sleepless: and soon the small bird's 
 
 melodies 
 Must hear, first utter'd from my or- 
 chard trees; 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy 
 
 cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two nights 
 
 more, I lay, 
 And could not Avin thee, Sleep! by 
 
 any stealth: 
 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 
 AVithout thee what is all the mor- 
 ning's wealth? 
 
 Come, blessed barrier betwixt day 
 and day. 
 
 Dear motlier of fresh thoughts and 
 joyous health ! 
 
 Lucr. 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 Beside the springs of Dove; 
 
 A maid whom there were none to 
 praise. 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 Half-hidden from the eye ! 
 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could 
 know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and oh! 
 
 The difference to me! 
 
 TO A DISTANT FIUFXD. 
 
 Why art thovi silent ! Is thy love a 
 plant 
 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacher- 
 ous air 
 
 Of absence withers what was once so 
 fair ? 
 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to 
 grant ? 
 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been 
 
 vigilant. 
 Bound to thy service with unceasing 
 
 care — 
 The mind's least generous wish a 
 
 mendicant 
 For nought but what thy happiness 
 
 could spare. 
 
 Speak! — though this soft warm 
 heart, once free to hold 
 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine 
 and mine. 
 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary 
 cold 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 673 
 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nest fiU'd with 
 snow 
 
 'Mid its own bvish of leafless eglan- 
 tine — 
 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their 
 end may know ! 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the 
 
 sky! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where 
 
 cares aboimd ? 
 Or while the wings aspire, are heart 
 
 and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the de\v"y 
 
 ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into 
 
 at will. 
 Those quivering wings composed, 
 
 that music still ! 
 
 To the last i^oint of vision, and be- 
 yond. 
 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love- 
 prompted strain 
 
 — 'Twixt thee and thine a never-fail- 
 ing bond — 
 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the 
 plain : 
 
 Yet might' St thou seem, proud privi- 
 lege! to sing 
 
 All independent of the leafy spring. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady 
 wood ; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine. 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon tlie 
 world a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more di- 
 vine; 
 
 Type of the wise, who soar, but never 
 roam — 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven 
 and Home! 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 A SIMPLE child 
 
 That lightly draws its breath. 
 And feels its life in eveiy lijub, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl : 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was tliick with many a curl 
 That cluster'd round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, Avoodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 "Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
 
 How many may you be ? " 
 
 '"How many? Seven in all," she 
 
 said. 
 And Avondering look'd at me. 
 
 "And where are they? I prav you 
 
 tell." 
 She answer' d, " Seven are we; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell. 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
 My sister and my brother; 
 And, in tlie cluu'chyai-d cottage, 1 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at (Jonway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell, 
 Sweet maid, how this may be ?" 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie. 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 "You run about, my little maid. 
 Your limbs they are alive; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid, 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may 
 
 be seen," 
 The little maid replied, 
 " Twelve steps or more from my 
 
 mother's door. 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 My stockings there I often knit. 
 My kerchief there I hem; 
 And there upon the ground I sit — 
 I sit and sing to them, 
 
674 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And often after sunset, sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my Httle porringer, 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 The first that died was little Jane; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 And all the sunnner diy, 
 Together round her grave we play'd, 
 My brother Jolin and 1. 
 
 And when the ground was white with 
 
 snow. 
 And I could run and slide. 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 And he lies by her side. 
 
 " How many are you then," said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 The little maiden did reply, 
 ' ' O master ! we are seven ! 
 
 "But they are dead; those two are 
 
 dead ! 
 Their spirits are in Heaven!" 
 'Twas throwing words aw^ay: for still 
 The little maid would have her will, 
 And said," Nay, we are seven! " 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty; 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
 A creatiu'e not too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 Praise, l^lame, love, kisses, tears, and 
 smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller betwixt life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate 
 
 will. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and 
 
 skill; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel Ught. 
 
 SHE IFAS A I'HANTOM OF DE- 
 LIGHT. 
 
 She was a i:)hantom of delight 
 AVhen tirst she gleamed upon my 
 
 sight; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a mojnent's ornament; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful 
 
 dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay. 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay, 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 A spirit, yet a woman too! 
 Her household motions light 
 free, 
 
 and 
 
 THY ART BE NATUIiE. 
 
 A poet! — He hath put his heart to 
 
 school. 
 Nor dares to move unpropped upon 
 
 the staff 
 Which art hath lodged within his 
 
 hand; must laugh 
 By precept only, and shed tears by 
 
 rule ! 
 Thy art be nature; the live current 
 
 quaff. 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant 
 
 pool. 
 In fear that else, wdien critics grave 
 
 and cool 
 Have killed him, scorn should write 
 
 his epitaph. 
 How does the meadow-flowei- its 
 
 bloom unfold! 
 Because the lovely little flower is 
 
 free 
 Down to its root, and in this free- 
 dom bold ; 
 And so the grandeur of the forest- 
 tree 
 Comes not by casting in a formal 
 
 mould, 
 But from its own divine yitality. 
 
SCOBN NOT THE SONNET. 
 
 Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you 
 
 have frowned, 
 Mindless of its just honors: with this 
 
 key 
 Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the 
 
 melody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Pe- 
 trarch's wound; 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso 
 
 sound ; [grief ; 
 
 Camoens soothed with it an exile's 
 The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante 
 
 crowned 
 His visionary brow; a glow-worm 
 
 lamp, 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from 
 
 fairy-land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, 
 
 when a damp [hand 
 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his 
 The thing became a trumpet, whence 
 
 he blew 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too 
 
 few! 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and 
 free. 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad 
 smi 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven is on the 
 sea. 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 
 And doth witli liis eternal motion 
 make 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child! dear girl, that walkest 
 with me here! 
 
 If thou appearest untouched by sol- 
 emn thought. 
 
 Thy nature is not, therefore, less 
 divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all 
 the year, 
 
 And worshippest at the temple's in- 
 ner shrine, 
 
 God being Mith thee when we knew 
 it not. 
 
 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late 
 
 and soon. 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste 
 
 our powers : 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a 
 
 sordid boon! 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the 
 
 moon ; 
 The winds that will be howling at all 
 
 hovu's 
 And are up-gathered now like sleep- 
 ing flowers ; 
 For this, for everything, we are out 
 
 of tune; 
 It moves us not. Great God! I'd 
 
 rather be 
 A pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant 
 
 lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me 
 
 less forlorn 
 Have sight of Proteus coming from 
 
 the sea, [horn. 
 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed 
 
 WESTMINSTER BUIDGE. 
 
 Earth has not anything to show 
 
 more fair : 
 Dull would he be of soul who could 
 
 pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty: 
 This city now doth like a garment 
 
 wear [bare, 
 
 The beauty of the morning; silent, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and 
 
 temples lie 
 Open luito the fields and to the sky, 
 All bright and glittering in the 
 
 smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendor valley, rock, or 
 
 hill; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so 
 
 deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet 
 
 will:' 
 Dear God! the very houses seem 
 
 asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying 
 
 still! 
 
676 
 
 WOTTON. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice: 
 
 cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
 Or but a wandering voice '? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass, 
 Thy loud note smites my ear! 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near! 
 
 1 hear thee babbling to the vale 
 Of sunshine and of flowers; 
 And unto me thou bringest a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the 
 
 spring 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery. 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy 
 
 days 
 I listened to; that cry 
 Which made me look a thousand 
 
 ways 
 In bush and tree and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Thi'ough woods and on the green; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
 Still longed for, never seen ! 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, fairy place; 
 That is fit home for thee ! 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 A HAPPY LIFE. 
 
 How happy is he born and taught 
 That serveth not another's will; 
 Whose armor is his honest thought 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ! 
 
 Whose passions not his masters are. 
 Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
 Not tied unto the world with care 
 Of public fame, or private breath ; 
 
 Who envies none that chance doth 
 
 raise 
 Or vice ; who never understood 
 How deepest wounds are given by 
 
 praise; 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good : 
 
 Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
 
 Whose conscience is his strong re- 
 treat : 
 
 Whose state can neither flatterers 
 feed. 
 
 Nor ruin make accusers great; 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray 
 More of his grace than gifts to lend ; 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a well-chosen book or friend : 
 
 — This man is freed from servile 
 
 bands 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands; 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
WYATT— YOUNG. 
 
 677 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt. 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF THE ONE HE 
 WOULn LOIE. 
 
 A FACE that should content me 
 
 wondrous well, 
 Should not be fair, but lovely to 
 
 behold ; 
 With gladsome cheer, all grief for to 
 
 expel ; 
 With sober looks so would I that 
 
 it should 
 Speak without words, such words as 
 
 none can tell; 
 The tress also should be of crisped 
 
 gold. 
 With wit, and these, might chance I 
 
 might be tied. 
 And knit again the knot that should 
 
 not slide. 
 
 A LOVEIVS PRAYER. 
 
 Disdain me not without desert, 
 Nor leave me not so suddenly; 
 
 Since well ye wot that in my heart 
 I mean ye not but honestly. 
 
 Refuse me not without cause why, 
 Xor think me not to he unjust; 
 
 Since that l)y lot of fantasy. 
 This careful knot needs knit 
 must. 
 
 Mistrust me not, though some there be 
 That fain would spot my steadfast- 
 ness. 
 
 Believe them not, since that ye see 
 The proof is not as they express. 
 
 Forsake me not, till I deserve ; 
 
 Nor hate me not, till I offend, 
 Destroy me not, till that I swerve; 
 
 But since ye know what I intend. 
 
 Disdain me not, that am your own ; 
 
 Eef use me not that am so true ; 
 Mistrust me not, till all be known ; 
 
 Forsake me not now for no new. 
 
 PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN. 
 
 Venomous thorns that are so sharp 
 
 and keen 
 Bear flowers we see, full fresh and 
 
 fair of hue : 
 Poison is also put in medicine. 
 
 And unto man his health doth oft 
 
 renew. 
 The fire that all. things eke consu- 
 
 meth clean. 
 May hurt and heal: then if that 
 
 this be true, 
 I trust some time my harm may be 
 
 my health. 
 Since every woe is joined with some 
 
 wealth. 
 
 Edward Young. 
 
 [From Night Thoughts.'] 
 
 PROCRASTINATION. AND FORGET- 
 FULNESS OF DEATH. 
 
 All promise is poor dilatory man. 
 And that through every stage: Avhen 
 
 young, indeed. 
 In full content we sometimes nobly 
 
 rest. 
 
 Unanxious for ourselves; and only 
 wish. 
 
 As duteous sons, our fathers were 
 more wise. 
 
 At thirty man suspects himself a 
 fool; 
 
 Knows it at forty, and i-eforms liis 
 plan ; 
 
 At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 
 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to re- 
 solve ; 
 
078 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 In all the magnanimity of tliought 
 liesolves, and re-resolves; then dies 
 
 the same. 
 And why ? Because he thinks him- 
 self immortal. 
 All men think all men mortal, but 
 
 themselves ; 
 Themselves, when some alarming 
 
 shock of fate 
 Strikes through their wounded hearts 
 
 the sudden dread : 
 But their hearts wounded, like the 
 
 wounded air, 
 Soon close ; where passed the shaft, 
 
 no trace is found. 
 As from the wing no scar the sky 
 
 retains; 
 The parted wave no furrow from the 
 
 keel; 
 So dies in human hearts the thought 
 
 of death. 
 
 [From Xhjht Thour/kts.] 
 >'IGHT II. 
 
 TIME, ITS USE AND MISUSE. 
 
 Time, in advance, behind him hides 
 
 his wings. 
 And seems to creep, decrepit with 
 
 his age : 
 Behold him, when past by; what 
 
 then is seen. 
 But his broad pinions swifter than 
 
 the winds ? 
 
 We waste, not use, our time: we 
 
 breathe, not live. 
 Time wasted is existence, used is 
 
 life : 
 
 We push time from us, and we wish 
 
 him back; 
 Lavish of lustrums, and yet fond of 
 
 life; 
 Life we think long, and short; death 
 
 seek, antl sliun ; 
 Body and soul, like peevish man and 
 
 wife. 
 United jar, and yet are loth to part. 
 Oh, the dark days of vanity! while 
 
 here. 
 How tasteless! and how terrible, 
 
 when gone ! 
 
 Gone? they ne'er go; when past, 
 they iiaunt us still : 
 
 The spirit walks of every day de- 
 ceased ; 
 
 And smiles an angel, or a fury 
 frowns. 
 
 Nor death, nor life, delight us. If 
 time past. 
 
 And time possessed, both pain us, 
 what can please ? 
 
 That which the Deity to please or- 
 dained. 
 
 Time used. The man who conse- 
 crates his hours 
 
 By vigorous effort, and an honest 
 aim, 
 
 At once he draws the sting of life 
 and death : 
 
 He walks with nature ; and her paths 
 are iieace. 
 
 [From Night Thoiifjhts.] 
 
 NIGHT II. 
 
 JOr TO BE SHAH EI). 
 
 Nature, in zeal for human amity, 
 Denies, or damps, an undivided joy. 
 Joy is an import; joy is an exchange; 
 •Joy flies monopolists : it calls for two; 
 Kich fruit! Heaven-planted! never 
 
 plucked by one. 
 Needful auxiliars are our friends, to 
 
 give 
 To social man true relish of himself. 
 Full on oiuselves, descending in a 
 
 line, 
 Pleasure's bright beam is feeble in 
 
 delight : 
 Delight intense is taken by rebound ; 
 Keverberated pleasures fire the breast. 
 
 [From Xujht TItouyhts.] 
 
 NIGHT II. 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 O TREACHEROUS conscience! while 
 she seems to sleep 
 
 On rose and myrtle, lulled with sy- 
 ren song; 
 
 While she seems nodding o'er her 
 charge, to drop 
 
 On headlong appetite the slackened 
 rein. 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 679 
 
 And give us vqy to license, unrecalled, 
 
 Unmarked; see, from behind lier 
 secret stand, 
 
 The sly informer minutes every fault, 
 
 And her dread diary with horror fills. 
 
 Not the gross act alone employs her 
 pen: 
 
 She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, 
 
 A watchful foe! the formidable spy, 
 
 Listening, o'erhears the whispers of 
 our camp ; 
 
 Our dawning purposes of heart ex- 
 plores, 
 
 And steals our embryos of iniquity. 
 
 As all-rapacious usurers conceal 
 
 Their doomsday-book from all-con- 
 suming heirs; 
 
 Thus, with indulgence most severe, 
 she treats 
 
 Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; 
 
 Unnoted, notes each moment misap- 
 l^lied ; 
 
 In leaves more durable than leaves 
 of brass. 
 
 Writes our whole history. 
 
 [From Night Thoughts.] 
 
 NIGHT II. 
 
 EFFECT OF CO XT ACT WITH THE 
 WORLD. 
 
 YiRxrE, for ever frail, as fair, below. 
 
 Her tender nature suffers in the 
 crowd, 
 
 Nor touches on the world, without a 
 stain : 
 
 The world's infectious; few bring 
 back at eve. 
 
 Immaculate, the manners of the 
 morn. 
 
 Something we thought, is blotted; 
 we resolved. 
 
 Is shaken; we renounced, returns 
 again. 
 
 Each salutation may slide in a sin 
 
 Unthought before, or fix a former 
 flaw. 
 
 Nor is it strange: light, motion, con- 
 course, noise. 
 
 All, scatter us abroad. Thought, out- 
 ward-bound. 
 
 Neglectful of her home affairs, flies 
 off 
 
 In fume and dissipation, quits her 
 
 charge, 
 And leaves the breast unguarded to 
 
 the foe. 
 
 Present example gets within our 
 
 guard. 
 And acts with double force, by few 
 
 repelled. 
 Ambition tires ambition; love of gain 
 Strikes, like a pestilence, from breast 
 
 to breast: 
 Riot, pride, perfidy, blue vapors 
 
 breathe ; 
 And inhumanity is caught from man, 
 From smiling man. A slight, a sin- 
 gle glance. 
 And shot at random, often has 
 
 brought home 
 A sudden fever to the throbbing 
 
 heart, 
 Of envy, rancor, or impure desire. 
 We see, we hear, Avith peril; safety 
 
 dwells 
 Remote from multitude; the world's 
 
 a school 
 Of wrong, and what proficients 
 
 swarm around 
 AVe must, or imitate, or disapprove ; 
 Must list as their accomplices, or 
 
 foes. 
 
 {From Night Thoughts.'] 
 
 NIGHT II. 
 
 THE CROWNING DISAPPOINT- 
 MENT. 
 
 So prone our hearts to whisper what 
 
 we wish, 
 'Tis later with the wise than he's 
 
 aware. 
 
 And all mankind mistake their time 
 
 of day; 
 Even age itself. Fresh hopes are 
 
 hourly sown 
 In furrowed brows. To gentle life's 
 
 descent 
 We shut our eyes, and think it is a 
 
 plain. 
 We take fair days in winter, for the 
 
 spring; 
 
G80 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 And turn oiu' blessings into bane. 
 Since oft 
 
 Man must compute tliat age he can- 
 not feel, 
 
 He scarce believes he's older for his 
 jears. [store 
 
 Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in 
 
 One disappointment sure, to crown 
 tlie rest; 
 
 The disappointment of a promised 
 hour. 
 
 [From Night Thouqhts.] 
 
 NIGHT 11. 
 INSUFFICIENCY OF THE WORLD. 
 
 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our 
 past hours; 
 
 And ask them, what report they bore 
 to heaven ; 
 
 And how they might have borne 
 more welcome news. 
 
 Their answers form M'hat men expe- 
 rience call ; 
 
 If wisdom's friend, her best; if not, 
 worst foe. 
 
 Oh, reconcile them! Kind experi- 
 ence cries, 
 
 "There's nothing here, but what as 
 nothing weighs : 
 
 The more our joy, the more we know 
 it vain ; 
 
 And by success are tutored to de- 
 spair." 
 
 Nor is it only thus, but must be so. 
 
 Who knows not this, though gray, is 
 still a child ; 
 
 Loose then from earth the grasp of 
 fond desire. 
 
 Weigh anchor, and some happier 
 clime explore. 
 
 [From Ntfiht Tliourihts.'] 
 
 XICIIT II. 
 
 EFFORT, THE (i.iUGE OF GREAT- 
 NESS. 
 
 No blank, no trifle, nature made, or 
 
 meant. 
 Virtue, or purposed virtue, still be 
 
 thine : 
 
 This cancels thy complaint at once; 
 
 this leaves 
 In act no trifle, and no blank in 
 
 time. 
 This greatens, tills, immortalizes, all ; 
 This, the blest art of turning all to 
 
 gold ; 
 This, the good heart's prerogative, 
 
 to raise 
 A royal tribute from the poorest 
 
 hours : 
 Immense revenue! every moment 
 
 pays. 
 If nothing more than purpose in thy 
 
 power ; 
 Thy purpose firm is equal to the 
 
 deed : 
 Who does the best his circumstance 
 
 allows. 
 Does well, acts nobly; angels could 
 
 no more. 
 Our outward act, indeed, admits re- 
 straint; 
 'Tis not in things o'er thought to 
 
 domineer. 
 Guard well thy thought ; our thoughts 
 
 are heard in Heaven. 
 
 [From Night Thoui/hts.] 
 
 NIGHT 11. 
 
 THE END OF THE VIRTUOUS. 
 
 The chamber where the good man 
 
 meets his fate. 
 Is privileged beyond the common 
 
 walk 
 Of virtuous life, quite in the vei'ge 
 
 of heaven. 
 
 A death-bed's a detector of the heart. 
 Here, tired dissimulation drops her 
 
 mask ; 
 Through life's grimace, that mistress 
 
 of the scene ! 
 Here, real and apparent are the same. 
 You see the man; you see his hold 
 
 on heaven. 
 
 Whatever farce the boastful hero 
 
 plays. 
 Virtue alone has majesty in death; 
 And greater still, the more the tyrant 
 
 frowns. 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 681 
 
 \_From Night Thoughts.] 
 
 NIGHT III. 
 
 THE OTHER LIFE THE EXD OF 
 THIS. 
 
 '• He sins against this life wlio sliglits 
 
 the next." 
 Wliat is tliis life ? How few their 
 
 favor! te know ! 
 Fond in the dark, and hlind in our 
 
 embrace, 
 By passionately loving life we make 
 Loved life unlovely; hugging her to 
 
 death. 
 We give to time eternity's regard; 
 And, dreaming, take our passage for 
 
 our port. 
 Life has no value as an end, but 
 
 means ; 
 An end, deplorable ! a means, divine ! 
 AVIien 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worse 
 
 than nought; 
 A nest of pains ; when held as noth- 
 ing, much: 
 Like some fair humorists, life is 
 
 most enjoyed 
 When courted least; most worth, 
 
 when disesteemed : 
 Then "tis the seat of comfort, rich 
 
 in peace; 
 In prospect, richer far; important! 
 
 awful ! 
 Xot to be mentioned, but with shouts 
 
 of praise; 
 Not to be thought on, but with tides 
 
 of .ioy; 
 The mighty basis of eternal bliss ! 
 
 [From Night Thoughts.] 
 
 NIGHT III. 
 THE GLORY OF DEATH. 
 
 Death but entombs the body; life 
 the soul. 
 
 Death has no dread, but what frail 
 
 life imparts; 
 Xor life true joy, but what kind 
 
 death improves. 
 
 Death, that absolves my birth; a 
 
 curse without it I 
 Eich death, that realizes all my cares, 
 
 Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a 
 chimera! [joy-" 
 
 Death, of all i>ain the period, not of 
 
 Joy's source, and subject, still sub- 
 sist unhurt, 
 
 One, in my soul: and one, in her 
 great Sire. 
 
 Death is the crown of life; 
 Were death denied, poor man would 
 
 live in vaiii ; 
 Were death denied, to live would not 
 
 be life ; 
 Were death denied, even fools Avould 
 
 wish to die. 
 Death wounds to cure: Ave fall; we 
 
 rise ; we reign ; 
 Spring from our fetters, fasten in the 
 
 skies; [sight: 
 
 Where blooming Eden withers inour 
 Death gives us more than was in 
 
 Eden lost. 
 This king of terrors is the prince of 
 
 peace. 
 When shall I die to vanity, pain, 
 
 death ? 
 When shall I die ? When shall I live 
 
 for ever '? 
 
 IFrom Xight Thoughts.] 
 
 NIGHT III. 
 
 CRUELTY. 
 
 Man is to man the sorest, surest ill, 
 
 A previous blast foretells the rising 
 storm ; 
 
 O'erwhelming turrets threaten ere 
 they fall; 
 
 Volcanoes belloAV ere they disem- 
 bogue ; 
 
 Earth trembles ere her yawning jaws 
 devour; 
 
 And smoke betrays the wide-consum- 
 ing fire : 
 
 Ruin from man is most concealed 
 when near, [blow. 
 
 And sends the dreadful tidings in the 
 
 Is this the flight of fancy ? Would 
 it were! 
 
 Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, 
 but himself, 
 
 That hideous sight, a naked human 
 heart. 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 [From Night Thoughts.] 
 
 NIGHT JV. 
 
 FALSE TEIilWRS IN VIEW OF 
 DEATH. 
 
 Why start at death ! Where is he ? 
 Death arrived, 
 
 Is past; not come, or gone, he's 
 never here. 
 
 Ere hope, sensation fails; blaclc- 
 boding man 
 
 Eeceives, not suffers, death's tremen- 
 dous blow. 
 
 The knell, the shroud, the mattock, 
 and the grave; 
 
 The deep, damp vault, the darkness, 
 and the worm ; [eve, 
 
 These are the bugbears of a winter's 
 
 The terrors of the living, not the 
 de'ad. 
 
 Imagination's fool and error's wretch, 
 
 Man makes a death, which nature 
 never made: 
 
 Then on the point of his own fancy 
 falls; 
 
 And feels a thousantl deaths, in fear- 
 ing one. 
 
 [From Night Thoughts.'] 
 NIGHT V. 
 
 DIFFERENT SOURCES OF FUNE- 
 RAL TEARS. 
 
 OuK funeral tears from different 
 
 causes rise. 
 As if from cisterns in the soul. 
 Of various kinds they flow. From 
 
 tender hearts 
 By soft contagion called, some burst 
 
 at once. 
 And stream obsequious to the lead- 
 ing eye. 
 Some ask more time, by curious art 
 
 distilled. 
 Some hearts, in secret hard, unapt to 
 
 melt. 
 Struck by the magic of the public eye. 
 Like Moses' smitten rock, gush out 
 
 amain. 
 Some weep to share the fame of the 
 
 deceased. 
 So high in merit, and to them so 
 
 dear: 
 
 They dwell on praises, which they 
 
 think they share; 
 And thus, without a blush, commend 
 
 themselves. 
 Some mourn, in proof that some- 
 thing they could love: 
 They weep not to relieve their grief, 
 
 but show. 
 Some weep in perfect justice to the 
 
 dead. 
 As conscious all their love is in arrear. 
 Some mischievously weep, not unap- 
 prised. 
 Tears, sometimes, aid the conquest 
 
 of an eye. 
 With what address the soft Ephesians 
 
 draw 
 Their sable network o'er entangled 
 
 hearts ! 
 As seen through crystal, how their 
 
 roses glow. 
 While liquid pearl runs trickling 
 
 down their cheek ! 
 ()f hers not j)rouder Egypt's wanton 
 
 queen, 
 Carousing gems, herself dissolved in 
 
 love. 
 Some weep at death, abstracted from 
 
 the dead. 
 And celebrate, like Charles, their 
 
 own decease. 
 By kind construction some are 
 
 deemed to weep 
 Because a decent veil conceals their 
 
 joy. 
 
 Some weep in earnest, and yet weep 
 
 in vain. 
 As deep in indiscretion as in woe. 
 Passion, blind passion! impotently 
 
 pours 
 Tears, that deserve more tears ; while 
 
 Reason sleeps. 
 Or gazes like an idiot, unconcerned; 
 Nor comprehends the meaning of the 
 
 storm ; 
 Knows not it speaks to her, and her 
 
 alone. 
 
 Half-round the globe, the tears 
 
 pumped up by death 
 Are spent in watering vanities of life; 
 In making folly tiomish still more 
 
 fair. 
 
YOUNG. 
 
 683 
 
 [From Night Though fs.] 
 
 XIGHT V. 
 
 VIRTUE, THE MEASURE OF 
 YEARS. 
 
 What though short thy date! 
 
 Virtue, not rolHng suns, the mind 
 matures. 
 
 That life is long, which answers life's 
 great end. 
 
 The time that bears no fruit, de- 
 serves no name: 
 
 The man of wisdom is the man of 
 years. 
 
 In hoaiy youth Methusalems may die ; 
 
 Oh, how misdated on their flattering 
 tombs ! 
 
 [From Xii/ht Tlioiights.] 
 
 XIGHT V. 
 
 POWER OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Nor reason, nor affection, no, nor 
 
 both 
 Combined, can break the witchcrafts 
 
 of the world. 
 Behold, the inexorable hour at hand ! 
 Behold, the inexorable hour forgot! 
 And to forget it the chief aim of 
 
 life; 
 Though well to ponder it, is life's 
 "chief end. 
 
 [From Xajht Thoiir/lits.] 
 
 XIGIIT VI. 
 
 ALL CHANGE; NO DEATH. 
 
 All change ; no death. Day follows 
 nigiit; and night 
 
 The dying day ; stars rise and set and 
 rise; 
 
 Earth takes the example. See, the 
 summer gay. 
 
 With her green chaplet and ambro- 
 sial flowers, 
 
 Droops into pallid autumn: winter 
 
 gt'ayi 
 Horrid with frost and turbulent with 
 
 storm, 
 Blows autumn, and his golden fruits 
 
 away : 
 
 Then melts into the spring: soft 
 
 spring, with breath 
 Favonian, from warm chambers of 
 
 the south, [fades, 
 
 Recalls the first. All, to reflourish. 
 As in a wheel, all sinks, to re-ascend. 
 Emblems of man, who passes, not 
 
 exi>ires. 
 With this minute distinction, em- 
 blems just. 
 Nature revolves, but man advances; 
 
 both 
 Eternal ; that a circle, this a line. 
 That gravitates, this soars. The as- 
 
 l^iring soul. 
 Ardent and tremulous, like flame, 
 
 ascends ; 
 Zeal and hiunility, her wings to 
 
 heaven. 
 The world of matter, with its various 
 
 forms, 
 All dies into new life. Life born 
 
 from death 
 Rolls the vast mass, and shall for 
 
 ever roll. 
 No single atom, once in being, lost. 
 
 [From Night Thoughts.'] 
 
 NIGHT VII. 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 Man must soar: 
 An obstinate activity within, 
 An insuppressive spring will toss 
 
 him up 
 In spite of fortune's load. Not kings 
 
 alone, 
 Each villager has his ambition too; 
 No sultan prouder than his fettered 
 
 slave: [straw. 
 
 Slaves build their little Babylons of 
 Echo the proud Assyrian, in their 
 
 hearts. 
 And cry — " Behold the wonders of 
 
 my might ! ' ' 
 And why '? Because immortal as 
 
 their lord. 
 And souls immortal must for ever 
 
 heave 
 At something great; the glitter, or 
 
 the gold ; 
 The praise of mortals, or the praise 
 
 of Heaven. 
 
684 
 
 YOUNG. 
 
 Nor absolutely vain is human 
 
 praise. 
 When human is supported by divine. 
 
 As love of pleasure is ordained to 
 
 guard 
 And feed our bodies, and extend our 
 
 race; [tect, 
 
 The love of praise is planted to pro- 
 And propagate the glories of the 
 
 mind. 
 
 [From JVif/ht Thoughts.] 
 
 XIGHT VIII. 
 
 WISDOM. 
 
 No man e'er found a happy life by 
 
 chance ; 
 Or yawned it into being with a wish; 
 Or, with the snout of grovelling ap- 
 petite. 
 E'er smelt it out, and grubbed it 
 
 from the dirt. 
 An art it is, and must be learned; 
 
 and learned 
 With unremitting effort, or be lost; 
 And leave us perfect blockheads, in 
 
 our bliss. 
 The clouds may drop down titles and 
 
 estates; 
 Wealth may seek us; but wisdom 
 
 must be sought ; 
 Sought before all; but (how unlike 
 
 all else 
 We seek on earth!) 'tis never sought 
 
 in vain. 
 
 {From Klght Thoughts.] 
 
 NIGHT IX. 
 CHEERFULNESS IX MISFORTUNE. 
 None ai-e imhappy: all have cause to 
 
 smile. 
 But such as to themselves that cause 
 
 deny. [pains ; 
 
 Our faults are at the bottom of our 
 Error, in act, or judgment, is the 
 
 source 
 Of endless sighs. We sin, or we 
 
 mistake; 
 And nature tax, when false oiiinicn 
 
 stings. 
 Let impious grief be banished, joy 
 
 indulged ; 
 
 But chiefly then, when grief puts in 
 her claim. 
 
 Joy from the joyous, frequently be- 
 trays ; 
 
 Oft lives in vanity, and dies in woe. 
 
 Joy amidst ills, corroborates, exalts; 
 
 'Tis joy and conquest; joy and virtue 
 too. 
 
 A noble fortitude in ills, delights 
 
 Heaven, earth, ourselves; 'tis duty, 
 glory, peace. 
 
 Affliction is the good man's shining 
 scene: 
 
 Prosperity conceals his brightest ray : 
 
 As night to stars, woe lustre gives to 
 man. 
 
 Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm, 
 
 And virtue in calamities, admire. 
 
 The crown of manhood is a winter 
 joy; 
 
 An evergreen that stands the north- 
 ern blast. 
 
 And blossoms in the rigor of our fate. 
 
 [From Night Thoughts.] 
 NIGIIT IX. 
 
 THE WORLD A GRAVE. 
 
 Where is the dust that has not 
 
 been alive ? 
 The spade, the plough, disturb our 
 
 ancestors ; 
 From human mould we reap our 
 
 daily bread. 
 Tlie globe around earth's hollow sur- 
 face shakes. 
 And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. 
 O'er devastation we blind revels keep ; 
 While buried towns support the 
 
 dancer's heel. 
 The moist of human frame the sun 
 
 exhales; 
 Winds scatter, through the mighty 
 
 void, the dry; 
 Earth repossesses part of what she 
 
 gave. 
 And the freed spirit mounts on 
 
 wings of fire; 
 Each element partakes our scattered 
 
 spoils; 
 As nature, wide, our ruins spread: 
 
 man's death 
 Inhabits all things, but the thought 
 
 of man. 
 
SPORTIVE, SATIRICAL, HUMOROUS, 
 
 DIALECT POEMS. 
 
 Charles Follen Adams. 
 
 YAWCOD STRAUSS. 
 
 I HAF von funny leedle poy 
 
 Vot gomes scliust to mine knee ; 
 Der queerest schap, der Greatest 
 rogue, 
 
 As efer you dit see. 
 He runs.und schumps,und schmashes 
 dings 
 
 In all barts off der house ; 
 But vot off dot ? he vas mine son, 
 
 Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He get der measles and der niumbs, 
 
 Und eferyding dot's oudt; 
 He sbills mine glass off lager bier. 
 
 Foots schnnff indo mine kraut. 
 He fills mine pijie mit Limburj 
 clieese, — 
 
 Dot vas der roughest chouse: 
 I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy 
 
 But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 
 
 Und cuts mine cane in dwo. 
 To make der scliticks to beat it mit,— 
 
 Mine cracious, dot vas drue! 
 I dinks mine bed vas schplit abart. 
 
 He kicks onp sooch a touse: 
 But nefer mind; der poys vas few 
 
 Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He asks me questions such as dese: 
 Who baints mine nose so red ? 
 
 Who was it cuts dot schmoodtli blacc 
 oudt 
 Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 
 
 Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der 
 lamp 
 
 Vene'er der glim I douse, 
 How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 
 
 To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? 
 
 I somedimes dink I schall go wild 
 
 Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
 Und wish vonce more I gould haf 
 rest, 
 
 Und beaceful dimes enshoy; 
 ^ut ven he vas ashleep in ped, 
 
 So guiet as a mouse, 
 I prays der Lord, "Hake anyding, 
 
 But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 
 
 PAT'S Cn/TfCISJf. 
 
 There's a story that's old. 
 But good if twice told. 
 
 Of a doctor of limited skill, 
 Who cured beast and man 
 On the " cold-water plan," 
 
 Without the small help of a pill. 
 
 On his portal of pine 
 Hung an elegant sign. 
 
 Depicting a beautiful rill, 
 
 And a lake where a sprite, 
 With apparent delight. 
 
 Was sporting a sweet dishabille. 
 
 Pat McCarty one day, 
 As he sauntered that wav. 
 Stood and gazed at that portal 
 pine; 
 
 of 
 
 Note. — Thackeray's liouiUahaisse and Trowbridge's Vaqahonds, being really- 
 pathetic poems, are placed here lor convenience rather than fitness, their colloquial 
 style adapting them to this rather than the other department. 
 
686 
 
 ALLINOIIAM. 
 
 When thfi doctor with pride 
 Stepped up to his side, 
 Saying, "Pat, how is that for a 
 sign ? " 
 
 " There's wan thing," says Pat, 
 
 " Y've hft out o' that, 
 "Which, be jabers! is quite a mistake: 
 
 It's trim, and it's nate: . 
 
 But, to make it complate, 
 Ye should have a foin burd on the 
 lake." 
 
 "Ah! indeed! pray, then tell, 
 
 * To make it look well. 
 
 What bird do you think it may lack? ' " 
 Says Pat, " Of the same, 
 I've forgotten the name. 
 
 But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! ' 
 quack!' " 
 
 FRITZ AND I. 
 
 Mynheer, blease helb a boor oldt 
 man 
 
 Vot gomes vrom Sharmany, 
 Mit Fritz, mine tog, and only f reunds 
 
 To geep me company. 
 
 I haf no geld to puy mine pread, 
 No blace to lay me down ; 
 
 For ve vas vanderers, Fritz und I, 
 Und sdrangers in der town. 
 
 Some beoples gife us dings to eadt, 
 Und some dey kicks us oudt, 
 
 Und say, " You don'd got peesnis 
 here 
 To sdroU der schtreets aboudt ! ' ' 
 
 Vot's dot you say ? — you puy mine 
 tog 
 
 To gife me pread to eadt! 
 I vas so boor as nefer vas, 
 
 But I vas no " tead peat." 
 
 Vot, sell mine tog, mine leedle tog. 
 
 Dot vollows me aboudt, 
 Und vags his dail like anydings 
 
 Vene'er I dakes him oudt ? 
 
 Schust look at him, und see him 
 schump ! 
 He likes me pooty veil; 
 Und dere vas somedings 'bout dot 
 tog. 
 Mynheer, I wouldn't sell. 
 
 "Der collar?" Nein: 'tvas some- 
 ding else 
 
 Vrom vich I gould not hart ; 
 Und. if dot ding was dook avay 
 
 I dink it prakes mine heart. 
 
 " Vot was it, den, aboudt dot tog," 
 You ashk, " dot's not vor sale ?" 
 
 1 dells you what it isli, mine freund : 
 'Tish der vag off dot tog's dail! 
 
 William Allingham. 
 
 LOVELY MARY DOXNELLY. 
 
 O T.OVEEV Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! 
 If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest; 
 Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will. 
 Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. 
 
 Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock. 
 
 How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock; 
 
 Bed rowans warm in sunshine, and wotted with a shower. 
 
 Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. 
 
 Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up. 
 Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; 
 Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine — 
 It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. 
 
BATES. 
 
 687 
 
 The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before — 
 No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor; 
 But Mary kept the belt of love, and O! but she was gay; 
 yiie danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my heart away! 
 
 When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, 
 The music nearly killed itself, "to listen to her feet; 
 The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised; 
 But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised. 
 
 And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung; 
 Youi- smile is always in mylieart, your name beside my tongue. 
 But you"ve as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, 
 And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. 
 
 O, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town; 
 
 The higher I exalt you the lower I'm cast down. 
 
 If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright, 
 
 And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. 
 
 O, might we live together in lofty palace hall 
 Where joyful music rises, and Avhere scarlet curtains fall I 
 O, might we live together in a cottage mean and small, 
 With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! 
 
 O, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress — 
 It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less; 
 The proudest place would fit yoiu- face, and I am poor and low. 
 But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go ! 
 
 Fletcher Bates. 
 
 THE CLEnGYMAiY AND THE 
 PEDDLER. 
 
 A CLEUGYiMAN who louged to trace 
 Amid his flock a work of grace, 
 And mourned because he knew not 
 
 why, 
 Yon fleece kept wet and his kept 
 
 dry, 
 AVhile thinking what he could do 
 
 more 
 Heard some one rapping at the door. 
 And opening it, there met his view 
 A dear old brother whom he knew, 
 Who had got down by worldly blows, 
 From wealth to peddling cast-off 
 
 clothes. 
 " Come in, my brother," said the 
 
 pastor, 
 *' Perhaps my trouble you can mas- 
 ter, 
 
 For since the summer you withdrew, 
 My converts have been very few." 
 " I can," the peddler said, " unroll 
 Something, perchance, to ease your 
 
 soul. 
 And to cut short all fulsome speeches. 
 Bring me a pair of your old breeches." 
 The clothes were brought, the ped- 
 dler gazed. 
 And said. " Xo longer be amazed, 
 The gloss upon this cloth is such, 
 I think, perhaps, you sit too much 
 Building air castles, bright and gay. 
 \Vhich Satan loves to IjIow away. 
 And here behold, as I am born. 
 The nap from neither kxrr is worn; 
 He who would great revivals see, 
 Must wear his pants out on the knee; 
 For such the lever prayer supplies. 
 When pastors kneel, their churches 
 rise." 
 
688 
 
 BA YL Y— BROWNING. 
 
 Thomas Haynes Bayly. 
 
 WHY DOXT THE MEX PROPOSE? 
 
 \ViiY don't the men ijropose, maiu- 
 mu ? 
 
 Why dotit the men propose ? 
 Each seems just coining to the point, 
 
 And tlien away lie goes ! 
 It is no fault of yours, mamma, 
 
 That everybody knows; 
 Youfete the finest men in town. 
 
 Yet, oh ! they won' t propose ! 
 
 I'm sure I've done my best, mamma, 
 
 To make a proper match ; 
 For coronets and eklest sons 
 
 I'm ever on the watch; 
 I've hopes when some distingue 
 beau 
 
 A glance upon me throws ; 
 But though he'll dance, aud smile, 
 and flirt, 
 
 .Vlas ! he won't propose ! 
 
 I've tried to win by languishing 
 
 And dressing like a blue ; 
 I've bought big books, and talk'd of 
 them 
 As if I'd read them through! 
 With hair cropped like a man, I've 
 felt 
 The heads of all the beaux ; 
 
 But Spurzheim could not touch their 
 liearts. 
 And, oil! they won't propose! 
 
 I threw aside the books, and thought 
 
 That ignorance was bliss; 
 I felt convinced that men preferr'd 
 
 A simple sort of Miss ; 
 And so I lisped out naught beyond 
 
 Plain '' Yeses " or plain " noes," 
 And wore a sweet unmeaning smile; 
 
 Yet, oh ! they won' t propose ! 
 
 Last night, at Lady Ramble's rout, 
 
 I heard Sir Harry Gale 
 Exclaim, " Now I projjo.se again!" 
 
 I started, turning pale; 
 I really thought my time was come, 
 
 I blushetl like any rose ; 
 But, oh! I found 'twas only at 
 
 Ecarte he'd projwse ! 
 
 And what is to be done, mamma ? 
 
 Oh ! wliat is to be done ? 
 I really have no time to lose. 
 
 For I am thirty-one: 
 At balls I am too often left 
 
 AVhere spinsters sit in rows ; 
 Why won't the men propose, mam- 
 ma ? 
 
 Why won''t the men propose ? 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 [From Aurora LeigJi.] 
 GOODiVESS. 
 
 Distrust that word. 
 
 "There is none good save God," said 
 Jesus Christ. 
 
 If He once, in the first creation-week. 
 
 Called creatures good, — for ever af- 
 terward. 
 
 The Devil has only done it, and his 
 heirs, [who lose; 
 
 The knaves who win so, and the fools 
 
 The world's grown dangerous. In 
 the middle age, 
 
 I think they called malignant fays 
 and imps 
 
 Good peoiile. A good neighbor, even 
 in this. 
 
 Is fatal sometimes, — cuts your morn- 
 ing up 
 
 To mince-meat of the very smallest 
 talk. 
 
 Then helps to sugar her boliea at 
 night 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 689 
 
 With yoiir reputation. I have known 
 
 good wives, 
 As cliaste, or nea:rly so, as Potipliar's; 
 And good, good mothers, who would 
 
 use a cliild 
 To better an intrigue; good friends, 
 
 beside, 
 (Very good) wlio lumg succinctly 
 
 round your neck 
 And sucked your breath, as cats are 
 
 fableil to do 
 By sleeping infants. And we all have 
 
 known 
 Good critics, who have stamped out 
 
 poets' hopes; 
 Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on 
 
 the state; 
 Good patriots, who, for a theory, 
 
 risked a cause; 
 Good kings, who disembowelled for 
 
 a tax; 
 Good popes, who brought all good to 
 
 jeopardy ; 
 Good Christians, who sate still in 
 
 easy chairs, 
 And damned the general world for 
 
 standing up. — 
 Now, may the good God pardon all 
 
 good men! 
 
 [From Aurora Leif/h.] 
 ClilTICS. 
 
 My critic Hammond flatters prettily. 
 And wants another volume like tlie 
 
 last. 
 My critic Belfair wants another book. 
 Entirely different, which will sell, 
 
 (and live ?) 
 A striking book, yet not a startling 
 
 book. 
 The public blames originalities, 
 (You must not pump spring water 
 
 imawares 
 Upon a gracious public, full of 
 
 nerves — ) 
 Good things, not subtle, new, yet 
 
 orthodox. 
 As easy reading as the dog-eared page 
 That's fingered by said public, fifty 
 
 years, 
 Since first taught spelling by its 
 
 grandmother, 
 
 And yet a revelation in some sort : 
 
 That's hard, my critic Belfair! So 
 — what next ? 
 
 My critic Stokes objects to abstract 
 thoughts ; 
 
 " Call a man, John, a woman, Joan," 
 says he, 
 
 " And do not prate so of humani- 
 ties:" 
 
 Whereat I call my critic simply 
 Stokes. 
 
 My critic Johnson recommends more 
 mirth 
 
 Because a cheerful genius suits the 
 times. 
 
 And all true poets laugh unquencha- 
 bly 
 
 Like Shakespeare and the gods. 
 That's very hard. 
 
 The gods may laugh, and Shake- 
 speare ; Dante smiled 
 
 With such a needy heart on two pale 
 lips. 
 
 We cry, " Weep rather, Dante." Po- 
 ems are 
 
 Men, if true poems: and who dares 
 exclaim 
 
 At any man's door, " Here, 'tis un- 
 derstood 
 
 The thunder fell last week and killed 
 a wife, 
 
 And scared a sickly husband — what 
 of that ? 
 
 Get up, be merry, shout and clap 
 your hands, 
 
 Because a cheerful genius suits the 
 times — ? " 
 
 None says so to the man, — and why 
 indeed 
 
 Should any to the poem ? 
 
 [From Aurnra Leir/h.] 
 HUMANITY. 
 
 Humanity is great; 
 And, if I would not rather pore upon 
 An ounce of common, ugly, human 
 
 dust. 
 An artisan's palm or a peasant's 
 
 brow, 
 Unsmooth, ignoble, save to me and 
 
 God, 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 Than track old Nilus to his silver 
 
 roots. 
 And wait on all the changes of the 
 
 moon 
 Among the mountain-peaks of Thes- 
 
 saly, 
 (Until her magic crystal round itself 
 For many a witch to see in) set it down 
 As weakness — strength by no means. 
 
 How is this 
 That men of science, osteologists 
 And surgeons, beat some poets in 
 
 respect 
 For nature, — count nought common 
 
 or unclean, [mens 
 
 Spend raptures upon perfect speci- 
 Of indurated veins, distorted joints. 
 Or beautiful new cases of curved 
 
 spine; 
 While we, we are shocked at nature's 
 
 falling off. 
 We dare to shrink back from her 
 
 warts and blains. 
 We will not, when she sneezes, look 
 
 at her. 
 Not even to say, " God bless her," 
 
 That's our wrong. 
 
 For that, she will not trust us often 
 with 
 
 Her larger sense of beauty and de- 
 sire, 
 
 But tethers us to a lily or a rose 
 
 And bids us diet on the dew inside. 
 
 Left ignorant that the hungry beg- 
 gar-boy 
 
 (Who stares unseen against our ab- 
 sent eyes. 
 
 And wonders at the gods that we 
 must be. 
 
 To pass so carelessly for the oranges I) 
 
 Bears yet a breastful of a fellow- 
 world 
 
 To this world, undisparaged, unde- 
 spoiled. 
 
 And (while we scorn him for a flower 
 or two. 
 
 As being. Heaven help us, less poet- 
 ical) 
 
 Contains himself both flowers and 
 firmaments 
 
 And surging seas and aspectable stars 
 
 And all that we would push him out 
 of sight 
 
 In order to see nearer. 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF IIAMELIN. 
 
 Hamei.ix Town's in Brunswick, 
 
 By famous Hanover city ; 
 
 The river Weser, deep and wide, 
 Washes its M'all on the southern 
 
 side; 
 A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
 
 But Avhen begins my ditty, 
 Almost five hundred years ago. 
 To see the townsfolk suffer so 
 
 From vermin, was a pity. 
 
 Rats! 
 They fought the dogs, and killed the 
 cats, 
 And bit the babies in the cradles. 
 And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 
 And licked the soup from the cook's 
 own ladles. 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
 
 And even spoiled the women's chats, 
 By drowning their speaking 
 With shrieking and squeaking 
 
 In fifty different sharps and flats. 
 
 At last the people in a body 
 To the Town Hall came flocking: 
 
 "'Tis clear," cried they, "our mayor's 
 a noddy ; 
 And as for our corporation— shock- 
 ing 
 
 To think Ave buy gowns lined with 
 ermine 
 
 For dolts that can't or Avon't deter- 
 mine 
 
 What's best to rid us of oiu- vermin! 
 
 You hope, because you're old and 
 obese, 
 
 To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
 
 Iiouse up, sirs! Give your brains a 
 racking. 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 691 
 
 To find the remedy we're lacking, 
 Or, sure as fate, we'll send you pack- 
 ing!" 
 At this, the mayor and corporation 
 Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
 
 An hour they sate in counsel — 
 
 At length the mayor broke silence: 
 " For a guilder I'd my ermine gown 
 sell: 
 1 wish 1 were a mile hence! 
 It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
 I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
 I've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
 Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap! " 
 Just as he said this, what should hap 
 At the chamber door but a gentle 
 
 tap ? 
 " Bless us," cri,ed the mayor, " what's 
 
 that?" 
 (^Vith the corporation as he sat, 
 Looking little, though wondrous fat; 
 Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister. 
 Than a too-long-opened oyster. 
 Save when at noon liis paunch grew 
 
 mutinous 
 For a plate of turtle, green and glu- 
 tinous) 
 *' Only a scraping of shoes on the 
 
 . ■ mat ? 
 Anything like the sound of a rat 
 jMakes my heart go pit-a-pat! " 
 
 "Come in!" the mayor cried, look- 
 ing bigger: 
 And in did come the strangest figure ! 
 His queer long coat from heel to head 
 Was half of yellow and half of red: 
 And he himself was tall and thin; 
 ^Vith sharp blue eyes, each like a pin : 
 And light loose hair, yet swarthy 
 
 skin; 
 No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin. 
 But li])s where smiles went out and 
 
 in — 
 There was no guessing his kith and 
 
 kin! 
 And nobody could enough admire 
 The tall man and his quaint attire. 
 Quoth one: "It's as my great-grand- 
 sire, [tone. 
 Starting up at the trump of doom's 
 Had walked this way from his painted 
 tombstone! " 
 
 He advanced to the comicil-table : ^ 
 And, '• Please your honors,'" said he, 
 
 "I'm able. 
 By means of a secret charm, to draw 
 All creatures living beneath the sun. 
 That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 
 After me so as you never saw ! 
 And I chiefly use my charm 
 On creatures that do people harm — 
 The mole, and toad, and newt, and 
 
 viper — 
 And people call me the Pied Piper." 
 (And here they noticed round his 
 
 neck 
 A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
 To match with his coat of the self- 
 same check ; 
 And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; 
 And his fingers, they noticed, were 
 
 ever straying 
 As if impatient to be playing 
 Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
 Over his vesture so old-fangled. ) 
 " Yet," said he, " poor piper as I 
 
 am, 
 In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
 Last June, from his huge swarm of 
 
 gnats; 
 I eased in Asia the Nizam 
 Of a monstrous brood of vampire- 
 bats; 
 And, as for what your brain bewil- 
 ders — 
 If I can rid your town of rats, 
 AVill you give me a thousand guil- 
 ders?" 
 "One? fifty thousand!" — was the 
 
 exclamation 
 Of the astonished mayor and corpo- 
 ration. 
 
 Into the street the piper stept, 
 
 Smiling first a little smile. 
 As if he knew what magic slept 
 
 In his quiet pipe the while; 
 Then, like a musical adept. 
 To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. 
 And green and blue his sharp eyes 
 
 twinkled. 
 Like a caudle flame where salt is 
 
 sprinkled; 
 And ere three shrill notes the pipe 
 
 uttered. 
 You heard as if an army muttered ; 
 
692 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 And the muttering grew to a gi-uin- 
 bling: 
 
 And the grumbhng grew to a mighty 
 rumbling; 
 
 And out of the liouses the rats came 
 tumbling. 
 
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, 
 brawny rats, 
 
 Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, 
 tawny rats. 
 
 Grave old plodders, gay young frisk- 
 ers. 
 Fathers, mothers, imcles, cousins. 
 
 Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; 
 Families by tens and dozens, , 
 
 Brothers, sisters, husbands, Avives — 
 
 Followed the piper for their lives. 
 
 From street to street he piped advan- 
 cing. 
 
 And step by step they followed dan- 
 cing, 
 
 Until they came to the river Weser 
 
 Wherein all plunged and perished 
 
 — Save one who, stout as Julius 
 Caesar, 
 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 
 (As he the manuscript he cherished) 
 
 To rat-land home his commentary, 
 
 Which was : "At the first shrill notes 
 of the pipe, 
 
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe. 
 
 Into a cider-press's gripe — 
 
 And a moving away of pickle-tub- 
 boards. 
 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cup- 
 boards. 
 
 And a drawing the corks of train-oil- 
 flasks, 
 
 And a breaking the hoops of butter- 
 casks. 
 
 And it seemed as if a voice 
 
 (Sweeter far than by harp or by 
 psaltery 
 
 Is breathed) called out, O rats, re- 
 joice ! 
 
 The world is grown to one vast dry- 
 saltery I 
 
 So munch on, crunch on, take your 
 nuncheon. 
 
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 
 
 And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. 
 
 All ready staved, like a great sun 
 shone 
 
 Glorious, scarce an inch before me, 
 Just as methought it said. Come, 
 
 Ijore me, 
 — I fomid the Weser rolling o'er 
 
 me." 
 
 You should have heard the Hamelin 
 
 people 
 Ringing the bells till they rocked the 
 
 steeple ; 
 " Go," cried the mayor, " and get 
 
 long poles ! 
 Poke out the nests and block up the 
 
 holes ! 
 Consult with carpenters and builders. 
 And leave in our town not even a 
 
 trace 
 Of the rats!" — when suddenly, up 
 
 the face 
 Of the piper perked in the market- 
 place, 
 With a, "First, if you please, my 
 
 thousand guilders!" 
 
 A thousand giiilders! The mayor 
 
 looked blue; 
 So did the corporation too. 
 For the council dinners made rare 
 
 havoc 
 With claret. Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, 
 
 Hock; 
 And half the money would replenish 
 Their cellar's biggest butt with Ilhen- 
 
 ish. 
 To pay this sum to a wandering fel- 
 low 
 With a gipsy coat of red and yellow ! 
 "Beside," quoth the mayor, with a 
 
 knowing wink, 
 " Om- business was done at the river's 
 
 brink; [sink. 
 
 We saw witli our eyes the vermin 
 And whafs dead can't come to life, 
 
 I think. 
 So, friend,- we're not the folks to 
 
 shrink 
 From the duty of giving you some- 
 thing for drink. 
 And a matter of money to put in 
 
 your poke ; 
 But, as for the guilders, what we 
 
 spoke 
 Of them, as you very well know, was 
 
 in joke, 
 
BROWNING. 
 
 693 
 
 Besides, our losses have made us 
 
 thrifty ; 
 A thousand guilders! Come, take 
 
 fifty!" 
 The piper's face fell, and he cried, 
 '• No trilling! I can't wait! heside, 
 I've promised to visit by dinner 
 
 time 
 Bagdat, and accept the prime 
 Of the head cook's pottage, all he's 
 
 rich in. 
 For having left, in the Caliph's kitch- 
 en, 
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — 
 With him I proved no bargain- 
 driver; 
 With you, don't think I'll bate a 
 
 stiver! 
 And folks who put me in a passion 
 May find me pipe to another fash- 
 ion." 
 
 "How?" cried the mayor, "d'ye 
 
 think I'll brook 
 Being worse treated tlian a cook ? 
 Insulted by a lazy ribald 
 AVitli idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
 You threaten us, fellow ? Do your 
 
 worst. 
 Blow your i^ipe there till you biu'st ! " 
 
 Once more he stept into the street; 
 
 And to his lips again 
 Laid his long pipe of smooth straight 
 
 cane; 
 And ere he blew three notes (such 
 
 sweet 
 Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
 
 Never gave the enraptured air) 
 There was a rustling that seemed like 
 
 a bustling 
 Of merry crowds justling at pitching 
 
 and hustling; 
 Small feet were pattering, wooden 
 
 slices clattering. 
 Little hands clapping, and little 
 
 tongues chattering; 
 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when 
 
 barley is scattering. 
 Out came the children running. 
 All the little boys and girls, 
 With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 
 And sparkling eyes and teeth like 
 
 pearls. 
 
 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily 
 
 after 
 The wonderful music with shouting 
 
 and laughter. 
 The mayor was dumb, and the coun- 
 cil stood 
 As if they were clianged into blocks 
 
 of wood, 
 LTnable to move a step, or cry 
 To the children merrily skipping by — 
 And could only follow with the eye 
 That joyous crowd at the piper's 
 
 back. 
 But how the mayor was on the rack. 
 And the wretched council's bosoms 
 
 beat. 
 As the piper turned from tlie High 
 
 Street 
 To wliere the Weser rolled its waters 
 Eight in the way of their sons and 
 
 daughters ! 
 However, he turned from south to 
 west, [dressed. 
 
 And to Koppelberg Hill his steps ad- 
 And after him the children pressed; 
 Great was the joy in every breast. 
 " He never can cross that mighty top I 
 He's forced to let the piping drop, 
 And we shall see oin- children stop!" 
 When, lo, as they reached the moun- 
 tain's side, 
 A wondrous portal opened wide. 
 As if a cavern was suddenly hol- 
 lowed ; 
 And the piper advanced and the 
 
 children followed; 
 And when all were in, to the very 
 
 last. 
 The door in the mountain side shut 
 
 fast. 
 Did I say all ? No ! One was lame. 
 And could not dance the whole of the 
 
 way ! 
 And in after years, if you would 
 
 blame 
 His sadness, he was used to say, — 
 " It's dull in our town since my play- 
 mates left ! 
 I can't forget that I'm bereft 
 Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
 Which the piper also promised me; 
 For he led us, he said, to a joyous 
 
 land. 
 Joining the town and just at hand, 
 
 ^m 
 
69-4 
 
 BROWNING. 
 
 Where waters gushed and fruit-trees 
 
 grew, 
 And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
 And every thing was strange and 
 
 new ; 
 The sparrows were brighter than pea- 
 cocks here, 
 And their dogs outran our fallow 
 
 deer, 
 And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
 And liorses were born witli eagles' 
 
 wings ; 
 And just as I became assured 
 My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
 The music stopped and I stood still, 
 And found myself outside the Hill, 
 Left alone against my will. 
 To go now limping as before, 
 And never hear of that country 
 more ! " 
 
 Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 
 
 There came into many a burgher's 
 
 pate 
 A text which says that Heaven's 
 
 Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
 
 As the needle's eye takes a camel in! 
 
 The mayor sent east, west, north, and 
 south, 
 
 To offer the piper by word of mouth. 
 Wherever it was men's lot to find 
 him. 
 
 Silver and gold to his heart's content. 
 
 If he'd only return the way he went. 
 And bring the children behind him. 
 
 But Mhen they saw 'twas a lost en- 
 deavor. 
 
 And piper and dancers were gone for- 
 ever. 
 
 They made a decree that lawyers 
 never 
 Should think their records dated 
 duly 
 
 If, after the day of the month and 
 year 
 
 These words did not as well appear: 
 ' ' And so long after what happened 
 
 here 
 On the twenty-second of July, 
 Thirteen hundred and seventy-six;" 
 And the better in memory to fix 
 The place of the children's last re- 
 treat 
 They called it the Pied Piper's Street; 
 Where any one playing on pipe or 
 
 tabor 
 Was sure for the future to lose his 
 
 labor. 
 Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 
 To shock with mirth a street so 
 
 solemn ; 
 But opposite the place of the cavern 
 They wrote the story on a column. 
 And on the great church window 
 
 painted 
 The same, to make the world ac- 
 quainted 
 Plow their children were stolen away; 
 And there it stands to this very day. 
 And I must not omit to say 
 That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
 Of alien people that ascribe 
 The outlandish ways and dress 
 On which their neighbors lay such 
 
 stress 
 To their fathers and mothers having 
 
 risen 
 Out of some subterranean prison 
 Into which they were trepanned 
 Long time ago. in a mighty band. 
 Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick 
 
 land. 
 But how or why, they don't unibn*- 
 
 stand. 
 So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 
 Of scores out with all men — especially 
 
 pipers : 
 And, whether they pipe us free from 
 
 rats or from mice. 
 If we've promised them aught, let us 
 
 keep our promise. 
 
BURNS. 
 
 695 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 TAM O' SHANTEll. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Brownyis and of Bogilis, full is this Buke. 
 — Gawin Douglas. 
 
 When chapman billies leave the 
 
 street, 
 And (Irouthy neebors, neebors meet, 
 As market-days are wearing late, 
 An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
 While we sit bousing at the napj)y,i 
 An' getting fou and unco happy, 
 We tiiinkna on the iang Scots miles. 
 The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles, 
 That lie between us and our hame. 
 Whare sits our sulky sullen dame 
 Gath'ring her brows like gatli'ring 
 
 storm, 
 Nursing her wrath to keep it warm'. 
 This truth fand honest Tarn O' 
 
 Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter 
 (Auld Ayr, Avham ne'er a town sur- 
 passes. 
 For honest men and bonnie lasses). 
 O Tam! hadst thou but been sae 
 
 wise. 
 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a 
 
 skellum.- 
 A blethering, blustering, drunken 
 
 blellum ; ^ 
 That frae November till October, 
 Ae market-day thou was nae sober; 
 That ilka mekler,* wi' the miller. 
 Thou sat as Iang as thou had siller; 
 That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
 The smith and thee gat roaring fou 
 
 on. 
 That at the Lord's house, ev'n on 
 
 Sunday, 
 Thou drank wi' Kirkton^ Jane till 
 
 Monday. 
 
 She prophesy' d that, late or soon. 
 
 Thou would be found deep drown' d 
 in Doon ; 
 
 Or catch" d wi' warlocks ^ i' the mirk,^ 
 
 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
 Ah, gentle dames! it gars me 
 greet,* 
 
 To think how mony counsels sweet, 
 
 How mony lengthen' d, sage advices, 
 
 The husband frae the wife despises! 
 But to our tale : A market night, 
 
 Tam had got planted unco right ; 
 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely. 
 
 Wi' reaming swats,^ that drank di- 
 vinely; 
 
 And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
 
 Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither: 
 
 They had been fou for weeks the- 
 gither. 
 
 The night drave on wi' sangs and 
 clatter ; 
 
 And ay the ale was growing better; 
 
 The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
 
 Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and pre- 
 cious : 
 
 The souteri'' tauld his queerest stories ; 
 
 The landlord's laugh was ready 
 chorus : [rustle, 
 
 The storm without might rair and 
 
 Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 Care, mad to see a man sa happy. 
 
 E'en drowned himself amang the 
 nappy! [ure, 
 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treas- 
 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' 
 pleasure ; 
 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was 
 glorious. 
 
 O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! 
 But pleasures are like poppies 
 spread, [shed ; 
 
 You seize the flow'r, its bloom is 
 
 ^ Ale. - Worthless fellow. s Idle talker. 
 
 ^ Every time that corn was sent to be ground. 
 
 p Kirkton is the distinctive name of a village in wliicli the parish kirk stands. 
 
 •"' Wizards. ' Dark. 8 Makes me weep. 
 
 9 Frothing ale. '" Shoemaker. 
 
696 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Or like the snow falls in the river, 
 A moment wliite — then melts for 
 
 ever : 
 Or like the borealis race, 
 That tlit ere you can point their place : 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
 Evanishing amid the storm. 
 Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 
 The hour approaches Tarn maun 
 
 ride : 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the 
 
 key-stane, 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast 
 
 in; 
 And sic a night he taks the road 
 
 in. 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 The wind blew as ' tMad blawn its 
 
 last; 
 The rattling show'rs rose on the 
 
 blast ; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness 
 
 swallow'd; 
 Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder 
 
 bellow' d; 
 That night, a child might understand. 
 The Deil had business on his hand. 
 Weel mounted on his grey mare, 
 
 Meg, 
 A better, never lifted leg. 
 Tarn skelpit i on throu' dub and 
 
 mire. 
 Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
 Whiles holding fast his gude blue 
 
 bonnet ; 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots 
 
 sonnet ; 
 Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent 
 
 cares, 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 
 Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh, 
 Whare ghaists and houlets nightly 
 
 cry 
 By this time lie was cross the ford, 
 Whare in the snaw the chapman 
 
 smoor'd;- 
 And past the birks^ and meikle * 
 
 stane, 
 Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck- 
 bane; 
 
 And thro' the whins, and by the 
 cairn, 
 
 Whare hunters fand the murder' d 
 bairn ; 
 
 And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
 
 Whare Mungo's mither haug'd her- 
 sel. 
 
 Before him Doon pours all his 
 floods ; 
 
 The doubling storm roars thro' the 
 woods ; 
 
 The lightnings flash from pole to 
 pole ; 
 
 Near and more near the thunders 
 roll: 
 
 When, glimmering thro' the groan- 
 ing trees. 
 
 Kirk Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; 
 
 Thro' ilka bore^ the beams were 
 glancing ; 
 
 And loud resounded mirth and danc- 
 ing. 
 Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
 
 What dangers thou canst make us 
 scorn ! 
 
 Wi' tippeny, we fear nae evil : 
 
 Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil ! 
 
 The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's 
 noddle. 
 
 Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
 
 But Maggie stood right sair aston- 
 ish'd, 
 
 Till, by the heel and hand admon- 
 ished. 
 
 She ventured forward on the light; 
 
 And woM- ! Tam saw an luico sight ! 
 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance : 
 
 Xae cotillion brent new frae France. 
 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and 
 reels. 
 
 Put life and mettle in their heels. 
 
 At winnock-bunker'^ in the east. 
 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' 
 beast ; 
 
 A towzie'' tyke, black, grim, and 
 large. 
 
 To gie them music, was his charge: 
 
 He screw'd the pipes and gart ^ them 
 skirl,9 
 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
 
 1 Went at a smart pace. 
 
 2 Smothered. 
 
 3 Birches, 
 
 4 Big. 
 
 5 Hole in the wall. 
 Window-seat. 
 
 ' Shaggy. 
 * P'orceil. 
 9 Scream. 
 
BUBNS. 
 
 697 
 
 Coffins stood roimd, like open presses, 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last 
 
 dresses ; 
 And by some devilish cantrip ^ slight 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
 By which heroic Tarn was able 
 To note upon the haly table, 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;- 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd 
 
 bairns ; 
 A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; 
 Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
 Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 A garter, which a babe had strangled ; 
 A knife, a father's throat had man- 
 gled. 
 Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
 The gray hairs yet stack to tlie heft ; 
 Wi' mair o' horrible and awf u' , 
 Which ev'n to name wad be im- 
 
 lawfu'. 
 As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and 
 
 curious. 
 The mirth and fun grew fast and 
 
 furious: 
 The piper loud and louder blew ; 
 The dancers quick and quicker 
 
 flew; 
 They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, 
 
 they cleekit, 
 Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
 And coost her duddies^ to the wark. 
 And linket ^ at it in her sark ! 
 Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been 
 
 queans 
 A' i^lunip and strapping in their 
 
 teens; 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie ^ 
 
 flannen, 
 Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder 
 
 linnen!'' 
 Thir" breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
 That ance were plush, o' gude blue 
 
 hair, 
 I wad a gi'en them off my hurdles,^ 
 For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! 
 
 But wither'd beldams, auld and 
 
 droll, 
 Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
 Lowjiing and flinging on a crum- 
 
 mock,'-* 
 I wonder didna turn the stomach. 
 But Tam kend what was what fu' 
 
 brawlie, 
 "There was ae winsome wench and 
 
 walie," 
 That night enlisted in the core, 
 (Lang after kend on Carrick shore; 
 For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
 And iierish'd mony a bonnie boat. 
 And shook baith meikle corn and 
 
 bear,i'5 
 And kept the country-side in fear). 
 Her cutty i^ sark, o' Paisley harn,i- 
 That, while a lassie, she had M'orn, 
 In longitude though sorely scanty. 
 It was her best, and she was vauntie — 
 Ah! little kend thy reverend gran- 
 nie. 
 That sark she coft i^ for her wee 
 
 Nannie, 
 Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her 
 
 riches). 
 Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches! 
 But here my muse her wing maun 
 
 cour ; 
 Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 
 To sing how Nannie lap and flang 
 (A souple jade she was, and Strang), 
 And how Tam stood, like ane be- 
 
 witch'd. 
 And thought his very e'en enrich'd; 
 Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' 
 
 fain, 
 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and 
 
 main: 
 Till first ae caper, syne i^ anither, 
 Tam tint ^-^ his reason a' thegither. 
 And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty- 
 
 sark!" 
 And in an instant all was dark; 
 And scarcely had he Maggie i-allied, 
 When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 1 Magic. 
 - Irons. 
 
 The manufacturing 
 Cromek. 
 
 1 These 
 
 8 Loins. 
 
 9 Short stair. 
 
 3 Clotlies. 6 Greasy. 
 
 ^ Tripped along, 
 term for a fine linen, woven in a reel of 1700 divisions.— 
 
 " Barley. 
 
 " Short. 
 
 ^- Very coarse linen. 
 
 13 Bought. 
 " Then. 
 " Lost. 
 
698 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,i 
 When plundering herds assail theid 
 
 byke;^^ *1 
 
 As open pussie's mortal foes, ' 
 
 Wlien, pop! she starts before their 
 
 nose; 
 As eager runs the market-crowd, 
 When, " Catch the thief !" resounds 
 
 aloud ; 
 80 Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and 
 
 hollow. 
 Ah, Tani! ah, Tam! thou'll get 
 
 thy fairin ! 
 In hell they'll roast thee like a her- 
 
 rin ! 
 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
 Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 And win the key-stane ^ of the brig ; 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they dare na cross. 
 But ere the key-stane she could make. 
 The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
 P'or Nannie, far before the rest. 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
 And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;* 
 But little Avist she Maggie's mettle — 
 Ae spring bi-ought off her master 
 
 hale. 
 But left behind her ain gray tail; 
 The carlin clauglit her by the rump, 
 And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 
 Now, who this "tale of truth shall 
 
 read. 
 Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed; 
 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
 Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
 Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, 
 Remember 'J'am O' Chanter's mare. 
 
 FROM THE "LIKES TO A LOUSE." 
 
 Now baud ye there, ye're out o' sight, 
 Below the fatt'rils,^ snug and tight; 
 Na, faith ye yet! ye" 11 no be right 
 
 Till ye've got on it, 
 The vera topmost, tow'rhig height 
 
 O' Miss's bonnet. 
 
 I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
 You on an auld wife's flainen toy;** 
 Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 
 
 On 's wyliecoat:'' 
 But Miss's fine Lunardi!** fie. 
 
 How daur ye do't? 
 
 O ,Ienny, dinna toss your head, 
 An' set your beauties a' abread! 
 Ye little ken what cursed speed 
 
 The blastie's'-* makin! 
 Thae winks and finger-ends. 1 dread. 
 
 Are notice takin ! 
 
 O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us 
 To see oursels as others see us ! 
 It wad frae mony a blunder free us 
 
 And foolish notion ; 
 What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e 
 us. 
 
 And ev'n devotion! 
 
 1 Bustle, 2 Jrive. 
 
 ^ It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits have no power to follow 
 a poor wight any farther than the middle of the liext running stream. It may be proper 
 likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, 
 whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning 
 back. — K. B. 
 
 * Effort. 5 Ribbon-ends. 
 
 '■ An old-fashioned head-dress. ' Flannel vest. 
 
 " A bonnet, named after Lunardi, whose balloon made him notorious in Scotland 
 about 1785. 
 
 " The shrivelled dwarf. 
 
Samuel Butler. 
 
 [From Hiulibira.] 
 THE LEARNING OF HUD IB R AS. 
 
 Hk was in logic a great critic, 
 Profoundly skill'd in analytic; 
 He could distinguish and divide 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west 
 
 side; 
 On either which he would dispute, 
 Confute, change hands, and still con- 
 fute. 
 He'd undertake to prove, hy force 
 Of argmnent, a man's no horse. 
 He'd prove a huzzard is no fowl, 
 And that a lord may be an owl, 
 A calf an alderman, a goose a jus- 
 tice, 
 And rooks committee-men and trus- 
 tees. 
 He'd run in debt by disputation. 
 And pay with ratiocination. 
 All this by syllogism, true 
 In mood and figure he would do. 
 For Rhetoric, he could not ope 
 His mouth, but out there flew a 
 
 trope : 
 And when he happened to break off 
 In the middle of his speech, or cough. 
 He had hard words ready to shew 
 
 why. 
 And tell what rules he did it by: 
 Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
 You' d think he talk'd like other 
 
 folk: 
 For all a rhetorician's rules 
 Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
 But, when he pleas' d to shew't, his 
 
 speech. 
 In loftiness of sound, was rich; 
 A Babylonish dialect, 
 AVhich learned pedants much affect. 
 It was a party-color'd dress 
 Of patch'd and piebald languages: 
 'Twas English cut on Greek and La- 
 tin, 
 Like fustian heretofore on satin. 
 It had an odd promiscuous tone, 
 As if he'd talked three parts in 
 one; 
 
 Which made some think, when he 
 
 did gabble, 
 They'd heard three laborers of Babel; 
 Or Cerberus himself pronounce 
 A leash of languages at once. 
 This he as volubly would vent 
 As if his stock would ne'er be spent; 
 And truly to support that clsarge, 
 He had supplies as vast and large; 
 For he could coin or counterfeit 
 New words with little or no wit: 
 Words, so debas'd and hard, no stone 
 Was hard enough to touch them on: 
 And when with hasty noise he spoke 
 
 'em, 
 The ignorant for current took 'em; 
 That hail the orator, who once 
 Did fill his mouth with ijebble-stones 
 When he harangued, but known his 
 
 phrase. 
 He would have used no other ways. 
 In Mathematics he was greater 
 Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater: 
 For he, by geometric scale, 
 Could take "the size of pots of ale; 
 Resolve, by signs and tangents, 
 
 straight. 
 If bread or butter wanted weight; 
 And wisely tell what hour o' th' day 
 The clock does strike, by algebra. 
 Beside he was a shrewd philosopher, 
 And had read ev'ry text and gloss 
 
 over. 
 Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath. 
 He understood by implicit faith : 
 AVhatever sceptic could inquire for, 
 For ev'ry why he had a wherefore; 
 Knew more than forty of them do. 
 As far as words and terms could go : 
 All which he understood by rote. 
 And, as occasion serv'd, would quote 
 No matter whether right or wrong, 
 They might be either said or sung. 
 His notions fitted things so well, 
 Tliiit which was which he could not 
 
 tell 
 But oftentimes mistook the one 
 For th' other, as great clerks have 
 
 done. 
 
700 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 He could reduce all things to acts, 
 And knew their natures by abstracts ; 
 Where entity and quiddity. 
 The ghosts of defunct bodies fly. 
 Where truth in person does appear, 
 Like words cougeal'd in northern 
 
 air. 
 He knew what's what, and that's as 
 
 high 
 As metapliysic wit can fly. 
 
 [From Iludibras.] 
 
 THE BIBLICAL KSOW LEDGE AND 
 IIELIGION OF HUDIBUAS. 
 
 He knew the seat of Paradise, 
 Could tell in what degree it lies; 
 And, as he was disposed, could prove 
 
 it 
 Below the moon, or else above it: 
 What Adam dreamt of, when his 
 
 bride 
 Came from her closet in his side; 
 Whether the devil tempted her 
 By a High-Dutch interpreter: 
 If either of them had a navel : 
 Who first made music malleable ; 
 Whether the serpent, at the fall. 
 Had cloven feet or none at all. 
 All this without a gloss or comment. 
 He could unriddle in a moment, 
 In proper terms, such as men smat- 
 
 ter. 
 When they throw out and miss the 
 
 matter. 
 For his religion, it was fit 
 To match his learning and his wit: 
 'Twas Presbyterian true blue; 
 For he was of that stubborn crew 
 Of errant saints whom all men grant 
 To be the true church militant; 
 Such as do build their faith upon 
 The holy text of pike and gun; 
 Decide all controversies by 
 Infallible artillery ; 
 And prove their doctrine orthodox 
 By apostolic blows and knocks. 
 
 A sect whose chief devotion lies 
 In odd perverse antipathies: 
 In falling out with that or this. 
 And finding somewhat still amiss : 
 
 More peevish, cross, and splenetic, 
 Than dog distract, or monkey sick; 
 That with more care keep holy-day 
 The wrong, than others the right 
 
 way : 
 Compound for sins they are inclined 
 
 to, 
 By damning those they have no mind 
 
 to: 
 Still so perverse and opposite, 
 As if they worshipped God for spite. 
 The self-same thing they will abhor 
 One way, and long another for. 
 Free-will they one way disavow; 
 Another, nothing else allow. 
 All piety consists therein 
 In them, in other men all sin. 
 Bather than fail they will decry 
 That which they love most tenderly; 
 Quarrel with minced pie, and dispar- 
 age 
 Their best and dearest friend, plum- 
 porridge. 
 
 [From lluilibrus.] 
 THE KXIGHT'S STEED. 
 
 The beast was sturdy, large, and 
 
 tall. 
 With mouth of meal, and eyes of 
 
 wall. 
 I wovdd say eye ; for he had but one. 
 As most agree : tho' some say none. 
 He was well stayed : and in his gait 
 Preserved a grave majestic state. 
 At spur or switch no more he skipt. 
 Or mended pace than Spaniard 
 
 whipt; 
 And yet so fiery he would bound 
 As if he grieved to touch the ground : 
 That Ca?sar's horse, avIio as fame 
 
 goes 
 Had corns upon his feet and toes, 
 AVas not by half so tender hooft. 
 Nor trod upon the ground so soft. 
 And as that beast would kneel and 
 
 stoop 
 (Some write) to take his rider up. 
 So Hudibras his ('tis well known) 
 Woidd often do to set him down. 
 We sliall not need to say what lack 
 Of leather was upon his back; 
 
BUTLER. 
 
 701 
 
 For that was hidden under pad, 
 
 And breech of knight galled full as 
 bad. 
 
 His strutting ribs on both sides 
 showed 
 
 Like furrows he himself had 
 ploughed ; 
 
 For underneath the skirt of pannel. 
 
 'Twixt every two tliere was a chan- 
 nel. 
 
 His draggling tail Ining in the 
 dirt, 
 
 Which on his rider he would flirt, 
 
 Still as his tender side he pricked, 
 
 Witla armed heel, or with unarmed, 
 kiclved ; 
 
 For Hudibras wore but one spur: 
 As wisely knowing, could he stir « 
 To active trot one side of 's horse, 
 The other would not hang an arse. 
 
 [From Hudibras.] 
 THE PLEASURE OF BEING CHEATED, 
 
 Doubtless the pleasure is as great 
 Of being cheated, as to cheat: 
 As lookers-on feel most delight, 
 That least perceive a juggler's sleight : 
 And still the less they understand, 
 The more they admire his sleight of 
 hand. 
 
 William Allen Butler. 
 
 FROM "NOTHING TO WEAR.'' 
 
 Nothing to avear! Now, as this 
 is a true ditty, 
 I do not assert — this, you know, 
 is between us — 
 That she's in a state of absolute nu- 
 dity. 
 Like Powers' Greek Slave or the 
 Medici Venus ; 
 But I do mean to say, I have heard 
 her declare. 
 When at the same moment she had 
 
 on a dress 
 Which cost five lumdred dollars, 
 
 and not a cent less. 
 And jewelry worth ten times more, 
 I should guess, 
 That she had not a thing in the wide 
 world to wear ! 
 
 I should mention just here, that out 
 of Miss Flora's 
 
 Two hundred and fifty or sixty 
 adorers, 
 
 I had just been selected as he who 
 should throw all 
 
 The rest in the shade, by the gra- 
 cious bestowal 
 
 On myself, after twenty or thirty re- 
 jections. 
 
 Of those fossil remains which she 
 called her "affections," 
 
 And that rather decayed, but well- 
 known work of art. 
 
 Which Miss Flora persisted in styl- 
 ing lier " heart." 
 
 So we were engaged. Our troth had 
 been plighted. 
 
 Not by moonbeam or starbeam, liy 
 fountain or grove. 
 
 But in a front parlor, most brilliantly 
 lighted, 
 
 Beneath the gas-fixtures, we whis- 
 pered our love. 
 
 Without any romance, or raptures, 
 or sighs. 
 
 Without any tears in Miss Flora's 
 blue eyes. 
 
 Or blushes, or transports, or such 
 silly actions. 
 
 It was one of the quietest business 
 transactions. 
 
 With a very small sprinkling of sen- 
 timent, if any, 
 
 And a very large diamond imported 
 by Tiffany. 
 
 On her virginal lips while I printed a 
 kiss, 
 
 She exclaimed, as a sort of paren- 
 thesis, 
 
 And by way of putting me quite at 
 my ease, 
 
 " You know I'm to polka as much as 
 I please, 
 
702 
 
 BUTLER. 
 
 And flirt when I like — now, stop, 
 don't you speak — 
 
 And you must not come liere more 
 tlian twice in tlie week. 
 
 Or tallv to me eitlier at party or ball. 
 
 But always be ready to come when I 
 call ; 
 
 80 don't jirose to me about duty and 
 stuff. 
 
 If we don't lireak this off, there will 
 be time enough 
 
 For that sort of thing; but the bar- 
 gain must be 
 
 That, as long as I choose, I am per- 
 fectly free, — 
 
 For this is a kind of engagement, 
 you see. 
 
 Which is binding on you, but not 
 binding on me." 
 
 Well, having thus wooed Miss M'- 
 Flimsey and gained her, 
 
 With the silks, crinolines, and hoops 
 that contained her, 
 
 I had, as I thought, a contingent re- 
 . mainder 
 
 At least in the property, and the best 
 riglit 
 
 To appear as its escort by day and by 
 night; 
 
 And it being the week of the Stuck- 
 ups' grand ball, — 
 Their cards had been out a fort- 
 night or so, 
 And set all the Avenue on the tip- 
 toe, — 
 
 I considered it only my duty to call. 
 And see if Miss Flora intended to go. 
 
 1 found her — as ladies are apt to be 
 found. 
 
 When tlie time intervening between 
 the first sound 
 
 Of the bell and the visitor's entry is 
 shorter 
 
 Than usual — I found; I won't say 
 I caught her. 
 
 Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly 
 meaning 
 
 To see if perhaps it did n't need 
 cleaning. 
 
 She turned as I entered — " Why 
 Harry, you sinner, 
 
 I thought that you went to the Flash- 
 ers' to dinner ! ' ' 
 
 " So I did," I replied, " but the din- 
 ner is swallowed. 
 And digested, 1 trust, for 't is now 
 nine and more. 
 So, being relieved from that duty, I 
 followed 
 Inclination, which led me, you see, 
 to your door; 
 And now Avill your ladyship so con- 
 descend 
 As just to inform me If you intend 
 Your beauty, and graces, and pres- 
 ence to lend 
 (All of which, when I own, I hope 
 
 no one will borrow) 
 To the Stuckups', wliose party, you 
 
 know, is to-morrow? " 
 The fair Flora looked up, with a 
 
 pitiful air, 
 And answered quite promptly, 
 
 "Why, Harry, rnon clier, 
 I should like above all things to go 
 
 with you there. 
 But really and truly — I've nothing 
 
 to wear." 
 "Nothing to wear! go just as you 
 
 are; 
 Wear the dress you have on, and 
 
 you '11 be by far, 
 I engage, the most bright and par- 
 ticular star 
 On the Stuckup horizon — " I 
 stopped, for her eye. 
 Notwithstanding tliis delicate onset 
 
 of flattery, 
 Openec>on me at once a most terrible 
 battery 
 Of scorn and amazement. She 
 made no reply. 
 But gave a slight turn to the end of 
 her nose, 
 (That pure Grecian feature,) as 
 nuieh as to say, 
 " IIow absurd that any sane man 
 
 should suppose 
 That a lady would go to a ball in the 
 clothes, 
 No matter how fine, that she wears 
 every day!" 
 
 So I ventured again; "Wear your 
 
 crimson brocade;" 
 (Second turn up of nose) — " That 's 
 
 too dark by a shade." 
 
BUTLER. 
 
 703 
 
 "Your blue silk" — "That's too 
 
 heavy. " "Your pink" — 
 
 " That's too light." 
 Wear tulle over satin" — "I can't 
 
 endure white." 
 '■ Your rose-colored, then, the best 
 
 of the batch " — 
 " I have n't a thread of point-lace to 
 
 match." 
 "Your brown moire antique'' — 
 
 "Yes, and look like a Quaker;" 
 " The pearl-colored " — " 1 woUld, but 
 
 that plaguy dress-maker 
 Has had it a week." "Then that 
 
 exquisite lilac, 
 In which you would melt the heart 
 
 of a bhylock;" 
 (Here the nose took again the same 
 
 elevation) — 
 " I would n't wear that for the whole 
 
 of creation." 
 " Why not? It's my fancy, there 's 
 
 nothing could strike it 
 As more conime il J'ittit'" — " Y'es, 
 
 but dear me, that lean 
 Sophronia ytuckup has got one just 
 
 like it. 
 And I won't appear dressed like a 
 
 chit of sixteen." 
 " Then that splendid purple, that 
 
 sweet Mazarine ; 
 That superb 2^oint iV aiguille, that 
 
 imperial green, 
 That zephyr-like tarletan, that rich 
 
 grenadine " — 
 "Not one of all which is fit to be 
 
 seen," | flushed. 
 
 Said the lady, becoming excited and 
 "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone 
 
 which quite crushed 
 Opposition, "that gorgeous toi- 
 lette wliich you sported 
 In Paris last spring, at the grand pre- 
 sentation, 
 When you quite turned the head of 
 
 the head of the nation. 
 And by all the grand court were 
 
 so very much courted." 
 The end of the nose was portent- 
 ously tipped up, 
 And both the bright eyes shot forth 
 
 indignation, 
 As she burst upon me with the fierce 
 
 exclamation. 
 
 " I have worn it three times, at the 
 least calculation. 
 And that and most of my dresses 
 are rijiped up! " 
 
 I have told you and shown you I 've 
 
 nothing to wear, 
 And it 's perfectly plain you not only 
 
 don't cai'e. 
 But you do not believe me," (here the 
 
 nose went still higher), 
 •• I suppose, if you dared, you would 
 
 ' call me a liar. 
 Our engagement is ended, sir, — yes, 
 
 on the spot: 
 You're a brute, and a monster, and 
 
 — I don't know what." 
 I mildly suggested the words Hot- 
 tentot, 
 Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, 
 
 and thief, 
 As gentle expletives which might 
 
 give relief; 
 But this only proved as a spark to 
 
 the powder, 
 And the storm I had raised came 
 
 faster and louder; 
 It blew and it rained, thundered, 
 
 lightened, and hailed 
 Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till 
 
 language quite failed 
 To express the abusive, and then its 
 
 arrears 
 Were brought up all at once by a tor- 
 rent of tears. 
 
 AYell, I felt for the lady, and felt for 
 my hat, too. 
 
 Improvised on the crown of the lat- 
 ter a tattoo. 
 
 In lieu of expressing the feelings 
 which lay 
 
 Quite too deep for words, as Words- 
 woi'th would say; 
 
 Then, without going through the 
 form of a bow. 
 
 Found myself in the entry — I hardly 
 knew how. 
 
 On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp- 
 post and square. 
 
 At home and up stairs, in my owu 
 easy-chair; 
 
704 
 
 BTROM. 
 
 Poked my feet into slippers, my 
 
 fire into blaze. 
 And said to myself, as I lit my 
 
 cigar, 
 " Supposing a man bad tbe wealth of 
 
 a Czar 
 
 Of tbe Russias to boot, for tbe 
 
 rest of bis days, 
 On tbe wbole, do you tbink be would 
 
 bave luucb to spare. 
 If be married a woman witli notliing 
 
 to wear '? ' ' 
 
 John Byrom. 
 
 THE WAY A RUMOR IS SPREAD: 
 OR, THE THREE BLACK CROlVS. 
 
 Two bonest tradesmen meeting in 
 
 tbe Strand, 
 One took the other, briskly, by tbe 
 
 hand ; 
 Hark-ye, said be, 'tis an odd story 
 
 tliis 
 About tbe crows! — I don't know 
 
 what it is, 
 Replied bis friend. — No! I'm sur- 
 prised at that; 
 Where I came from it is tbe common 
 
 chat; 
 But you shall hear; an odd affair 
 
 indeed ! 
 And, that it happened, they are all 
 
 agreed : 
 Not to detain you from a thing so 
 
 strange, 
 A gentleman, tliat lives not far from 
 
 Change, 
 This week, in short, as all the alley 
 
 knows. 
 Taking a puke, has tlirown up three 
 
 blac'lc crows, — 
 Impossible! — Nay, l)ut it's really 
 
 true ; 
 I have it from good hands, and so 
 
 may you. — 
 From whose, I pray ? — So having 
 
 named tbe man. 
 Straight to inquire liis curious com- 
 rade ran. 
 Sir, did you tell — relating the af- 
 fair — 
 Yes, sir, I did: and if its worth your 
 
 care. 
 Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me 
 But, by tbe by, 'twas two black 
 
 crows, not three. — 
 
 Resolved to trace so wondrous an 
 
 event. 
 Whip, to the third, the virtuoso 
 
 went; 
 Sir — and so forth — Why, yes; tbe 
 
 thing is fact, 
 Though in regard to number, not 
 
 exact; 
 It was not two black crows, 'twas 
 
 only one, 
 The truth of that you may depend 
 
 upon. 
 The gentleman himself told me the 
 
 case — 
 Where may I find him? — Why, in 
 
 sucli a place. 
 Away goes lie, and having found 
 
 him out. 
 Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt. 
 Then to bis last informant be re- 
 ferred, 
 And begged to know, if true what 
 
 be had beard? 
 Did you, sir, throw up a black crow? 
 
 —Not I — 
 Bless me ! bow people propagate a lie ! 
 Black crows have been thrown up, 
 
 three, tico, and one; 
 And here, I find, all comes, at last, to 
 
 none! 
 Did you say nothing of a crow at 
 
 all? — 
 Crow — crow — perhaps I might, now 
 
 I recall 
 The matter over — And, pray, sir, 
 
 what was't ? 
 Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the 
 
 last, 
 I did throw up, and told my neighbor 
 
 so. 
 Something that was — as black, sir, 
 
 as a crow. 
 
CARELESS CONTENT. 
 
 I AJi content, I do not care, 
 Wag as it will the world for me ; 
 
 When fuss and fret was all my fare, 
 It got no ground as I could see: 
 
 So when away niy caring went, 
 
 I counted cost, and was content. 
 
 With more of thanks and less of 
 thought, 
 I strive to make my matters meet; 
 To seek what ancient sages sought. 
 
 Physic and food in sour and sweet: 
 To take what passes in good part, 
 And keep the hiccups from the 
 heart. 
 
 With good and gentle-humored hearts, 
 I choose to chat where'er I come, 
 
 Whate'er the subject be that starts; 
 But if I get among the glum, 
 
 I hold my tongue to tell the truth. 
 
 And keep my breath to cool my 
 broth. 
 
 For chance or change of peace or 
 pain. 
 For Fortune's favor or her frown, 
 For lack or glut, for loss or gain, 
 
 I never dodge, nor up nor down: 
 But swing what Avay the shiiJ shall 
 
 swim. 
 Or tack about with equal trim. 
 
 If names or notions make a noise, 
 
 Wliatever hap the question hath, 
 The point impartially I poise, 
 And read or write, but without 
 wrath ; 
 For should I burn, or break my 
 
 brains. 
 Pray, who Mill pay me for my 
 pains ? 
 
 I suit not where I shall not speed. 
 Nor trace the turn of every tide ; 
 
 If simple sense will not succeed. 
 I make no bustling, but abide : 
 
 For shining wealth, or scaring woe, 
 
 I force no friend, I fear no foe. 
 
 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs. 
 Of they're i' the ^rong, and we're 
 i' the right, 
 
 I shun the rancors and the routs ; 
 And wishing well to every wight. 
 
 Whatever turn the matter takes, 
 
 I deem it all but ducks and drakes. 
 
 With whom I feast I do not fawn. 
 Nor if the folks should tlout me, 
 faint: 
 If wonted welcome be withdrawn, 
 I cook no kind of a complaint: 
 With none disposed to disagree. 
 But like them best who best like 
 me. 
 
 Not that I rate myself the rule 
 
 How all my betters should be- 
 have ; 
 But fame shall find me no man's 
 fool. 
 Nor to a set of men a slave : 
 I love a friendship free and frank, 
 And hate to hang upon a hank. 
 
 Fond of a true and trusty tie, 
 I never loose where'er I link; 
 
 Though if a business budges by, 
 I talk thereon just as I think; 
 
 My word, my work, my heart, my 
 hand. 
 
 Still on a side together stand. 
 
 I love my neighbor as myself, 
 Myself like him too, by his leave ; 
 
 Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf. 
 Came I to crouch, as I conceive: 
 
 Dame Nature doubtless has designed 
 
 A man the monarch of his mind. 
 
 Now taste and trj' this temper, sirs, 
 Mood it and brood it in your 
 breast ; 
 Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs. 
 That man does right to mar his 
 rest. 
 Let me be deft and debonair, 
 1 am content, I do not care. 
 
706 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 SPECTACLES, OR HELPS TO READ. 
 
 A CERTAIN artist — I've forgot his name — 
 
 Had got, for making spectacles, a fame, 
 
 Or " lielps to read," as, wlien they first were sold. 
 
 Was writ npon his glaring sign in gold ; 
 
 And, for all uses to be had from glass. 
 
 His were allowed by readers to snrpass. 
 
 There came a man into his shop one day — 
 
 " Are you the spectacle contriver, pray ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said he; " I can in that affair 
 
 Contrive to please you, if you want a pair." 
 
 " Can you ? pray do then." So, at first, he chose 
 
 To place a youngish pair upon his nose; 
 
 And book produced to see how they would fit : 
 
 Asked how he liked 'em '? " Like 'em ? not a bit." 
 
 " Then, sir, I fancy, if yon please to try. 
 
 These in my hand will better suit your eye." 
 
 " No, but they don't." " Well, come, sir, if you please, 
 
 Here is another sort, we'll e'en try these; 
 
 Still somewhat more they magnify the letter; 
 
 Now, sir '? " " Why, now — I'm not a bit the better." 
 
 " No ? here, take these, that magnify still more; 
 
 How do tliey fit ? " " Like all the rest before." 
 
 In short they tried a whole assortment through. 
 But all in vain, for none of 'em would do. 
 The operator, much surprised to find 
 So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind! 
 " What sort of eyes can you have got ? " said he. 
 " Why, very good ones, friend, as you may see." 
 " Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball — 
 Pray, let me ask you, can you read at all ?" 
 "No, you great blockhead; if I could, what need 
 Of paying you for any ' helps to read ?' " 
 And so he left the maker in a heat, 
 Eesolved to post him for an arrant cheat. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 [From English Bards and Scotch Ee- 
 riewers.] 
 
 CRITICS. 
 
 Oh! nature's noblest gift — my 
 gray goose-quill I 
 Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my 
 will, 
 
 Torn from thy parent bird to form a 
 pen, 
 
 That mighty instrument of little 
 men ! 
 
 The pen ! foredoomed to aid the men- 
 tal throes 
 
 Of brains that labor, big with verse 
 or prose, 
 
CAMPBELL. 
 
 707 
 
 Though nymphs forsake, and critics 
 
 may deride, 
 The lover's solace and the author's 
 
 pride. 
 What wits, what poets, dost thou 
 
 daily raise! 
 How frequent is thy use, how small 
 
 thy praise! 
 Condemned at length to be forgotten 
 
 quite, 
 With all the pages which 'twas thine 
 
 to write. 
 
 Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other 
 
 fame; 
 The cry is up, and scribblers are my 
 
 game. 
 Speed, Pegasus I — ye strains of great 
 
 and small. 
 Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
 I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a 
 
 a time 
 I poured along the town a flood of 
 
 rhyme, 
 A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise 
 
 or blame; 
 I printed — older children do the 
 
 same. 
 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name 
 
 in print; 
 A book's a book, although there's 
 
 nothing in't. 
 
 A man must serve his time to every 
 
 trade 
 Save censure — critics all are ready 
 
 made. 
 Take hackneyed jokes from Miller. 
 
 got by rote. 
 With just enough of learning to mis- 
 quote : 
 A mind well skilled to fuid or forge a 
 
 fault ; 
 A turn for punning, — call it Attic 
 
 salt ; 
 To Jeffrey go ; be silent and discreet, 
 His pay is "just ten sterling pounds 
 
 per sheet. 
 Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky 
 
 hit: 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill 
 
 pass for wit; 
 Care not for feeling — pass your 
 
 proper jest. 
 And stand a critic, hated, yet ca- 
 ressed. 
 And shall we own such judgment ? 
 
 No — as soon 
 Seek roses in December — ice in 
 
 June; 
 Hope constancy in wind, or corn in 
 
 chaff; 
 Believe a woman, or an epitaph. 
 Or any other thing that's false, before 
 You trust in critics, who themselves 
 
 are sore. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 SOXG. 
 
 To T.ove in mv heart, I exclaimed, t'other morning. 
 Thou hast dwelt here too long, little lodger, take warning 
 Thou Shalt tempt me no more from my life's sober duty. 
 To go gadding, bewitched by the young eyes of beauty. 
 For weary's the wooing, ah! weary, 
 When an old man willhave a young dearie. 
 
 The god left my heart, at its surly reflections. 
 But came back" on pretext of some sweet recollections, 
 And he made me forget what I ought to remember, 
 That the rosebud of Jmie cannot bloom in November. 
 Ah! Tom, 'tis all o'er with thy gay days — 
 Write psalms, and not songs for the ladies. 
 
CANNING. 
 
 But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching. 
 That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching; 
 And the only new lore my experience traces, 
 Is to find fresli enchantment in magical faces. 
 
 How weary is wisdom, how weary! 
 
 When one sits by a smiling young dearie! 
 
 And should slie be wroth that my homage pursues her, 
 I will turn and retort on my lovely aceuser: 
 Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted ? 
 It is you, the enchantress — not I, the enclianted. 
 
 Would you liave me behave more discreetly, 
 
 Beauty, looli not so killingly sweetly. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM. 
 
 An original something, fair maid, you would win me 
 
 To write — but how shall I begin ? 
 For I fear I have nothing original in me — 
 
 Excepting Original Sin ! 
 
 George Canning. 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN. 
 
 Whene'er with haggard eyes I view 
 
 This dungeon that I'm rotting in, 
 I think of those companions true 
 Who studied with me at tlie U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 Sweet kerchief, checked witli heaven- 
 blue. 
 Which once my love sat knotting 
 in — 
 Alas, Matilda then was true! 
 At least I thought so at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you 
 flew, 
 Her neat post-wagon trotting in ! 
 Ye bore Matilda from my view ; 
 Forlorn I languished at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 This faded form! this pallid hue! 
 This blood my veins is clotting 
 in! 
 My years are many — they were few 
 When first I entered at the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 There first for thee my passion 
 grew, 
 Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen I 
 Thou wast the daughter of my tu- 
 tor, law ijrofessor at the U- 
 
 niversity of (gottingen, 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 
 Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, 
 adieu, 
 That kings and priests are plotting 
 in; 
 Here doomed to starve on water gru- 
 el, never shall I see the U- 
 
 niversity of Gottingen. 
 niversity of Gottingen, 
 
CARL ETON. 
 
 709 
 
 Will Carleton. 
 
 THE NEW- YEAR'S BABY. 
 " Th'art welcome, litle bonnie bird. 
 
 But shouliln't }ia' come just when tha' flid. 
 
 Teimes are bad." — Old EngHsh Ballad. 
 
 Hoot, ye little rascal! ye come it on me tliis way 
 
 Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day 
 
 Knowin' tliat we already have three of ye, and seven, 
 
 An' tryin' to malce yerself out a New- Year's present o' heaven! 
 
 Ten of ye have we now, sir, for this world to abuse, 
 An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat,- and Nellie she have no shoes- 
 And Sanimie he have no shirt, sir (I tell it to his shame) ; ' 
 
 And the one that was just before you we a' n't had time to name. 
 
 An' all the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folks fall; 
 An' boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all; 
 An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight; 
 An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night. 
 
 An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somew'at to do. 
 An' but foi-the preacher's woman, who often helps us through, 
 An' but for your poor, dear mother a-doin' twice her part, 
 Ye"d 'a' seen us all in heaven afore ye was ready to start. 
 
 An' now ye have come, ye rascal ! so healthy an' fat an' sound 
 A weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound; 
 ^Vith your mother's eyes a-flashin', yer father's flesh an' build, 
 An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready to be filled. 
 
 No, no, don't cry, my baby; hush up, my pretty one. 
 Don't get my chaff in yer eye, my boy; I only was just in fun. 
 Ye 11 like us when ye know us, although we're cur'ous folks - 
 But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes. ' 
 
 Why, boy! did ye take me in earnest ? Come, sit upon my knee 
 I 11 tell ye a secret, youngster; I'll name ye after me; 
 Ye^shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play; 
 An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day. 
 
 Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer ? I'm gettin' a trifle old. 
 But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold; 
 An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still them's'yer brothers there 
 An not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair. 
 
 Say, when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear 
 
 Did ye see, 'inongst the little girls there, a face like this one here^ 
 
 Ihat was yer little sister; she died a year ago. 
 
 An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow. 
 
 Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew 
 Came here Mitli all their traps, lioy, an' offered 'em for you, 
 Id show 'em to the door, sir, so quick they'd think it odd, 
 Before I'd sell to another my New- Year's gift from God 
 
710 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 FROM "LIXES COMPOSED IX A 
 
 coxcEUT room:' 
 
 Xoii cold nor stern, my soul! yet I 
 detest 
 These scented rooms, where to a 
 gaudy throng, 
 Heaves the proud harlot her dis- 
 tended hreast 
 In intricacies of laborious song. 
 
 These feel not Music's genuine power, 
 nor deign 
 To melt at Nature's passion-war- 
 bled plaint; 
 But when the long-breathed singer's 
 uptrilled strain 
 Bursts in a squall — they gape for 
 wonderment. 
 
 NAMES. 
 
 I ASKED my fair, one happy day. 
 What I should call her in my lay ; 
 
 By what sweet name from Rome 
 or Greece : 
 Lalage, Netera, Chloris, 
 Sappho, Lesbia. or Doris, 
 
 Arethusa, or Lucrece. 
 
 " Ah! " replied my gentle fair, 
 
 " Beloved, what are names but air ? 
 
 Choose thou whatever suitsthe line ; 
 Call me Sappho, call me Chloris. 
 Call me Lalage or Doris, 
 
 Only, only call me Thine." 
 
 LIXES TO A COMIC AUTHOR OX 
 AX ABUSIVE REVIEW. 
 
 What though the chilly wide- 
 mouthed quacking chorus 
 
 From the rank swamps of nuirk Re- 
 view-land croak ; 
 
 So was it, neighbor, in the times be- 
 fore us, 
 
 When Momus, thro^\ing on his attic 
 cloak. 
 
 Romped with the Graces; and each 
 
 tickled Muse 
 (That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom 
 
 bards call divine. 
 Was married to — at least, he kept — 
 
 * all nine) 
 Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; 
 Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to 
 
 excuse, 
 They had allured the audacious Greek 
 
 to use. 
 Swore they mistook him for their own 
 
 good man. 
 This Monuis — Aristophanes on earth 
 Men called him — maugre all his wit 
 
 and woi'th 
 Was croaked and gabbled at. How, 
 
 then, should you. 
 Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulk- 
 ing crew '? 
 No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones 
 
 of glee, 
 " I hate the quacking tribe, and they 
 
 hate me! " 
 
 FROM "AX ODE TO THE RAIX." 
 
 Composed before daylight, on the morning ap- 
 pointed for the departure of a very worthy, 
 but not very pleasant visitor, whom it was 
 feared the rain might detain. 
 
 Though you should come again to- 
 morrow. 
 
 And bring with you l)oth pain and 
 sorro\v ; 
 
 Though stomach should sicken and 
 knees shotdd swell — 
 
 I'll nothing speak of you but well. 
 
 But only now for this one day. 
 
 Do go, dear Rain! do go away! 
 
 Dear Rain ! I ne'er refused to say 
 You're a good creature in your way; 
 Nay, I would Mrite a book myself, 
 Would fit a parson's lower shelf. 
 Showing how very good you are. 
 What then '? sometimes it must be 
 
 fair! 
 And if sometimes, why not to-day ? 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
COWPER, 
 
 Dear Rain! if I've been cold and 
 sliy, 
 
 Take no offence! I'll tell you whj-. 
 
 A dear old friend e'en now is here, 
 
 And with him came my sister dear; 
 
 After long absence now tirst met, 
 
 Long months by pain and grief be- 
 set — 
 
 With three dear friends! in truth we 
 groan — 
 
 Impatiently to be alone. 
 
 We three, you mai'k! and not one 
 more ! 
 
 The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 
 
 We have so much to talk about, 
 So many sad things to let out; 
 So many tears in our eye-corners, 
 Sitting like little Jacky Horners — 
 In short, as soon as it is day. 
 Do go, dear Kain ! do go away ! 
 
 EPIGRAM ON " THE RIME OF 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER " 
 
 Your poem must eternal be, 
 Dear sir; it cannot fail; 
 
 For, 'tis incomprehensible. 
 And without head or tail. 
 
 William Cowper. 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 JoHX Gilpin was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renov.n, 
 A train-band captain eke was he 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her 
 dear — 
 
 " Though wedded we have been 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 My sister and my sister's child, 
 Myself and children three. 
 
 Will till the chaise; so you must ride 
 On horselmck after we." 
 
 lie soon replied — "I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one. 
 And you are she, my dearest dear, 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 I am a linen-drav)er bold. 
 As all the world doth know. 
 
 And my good friend the calender 
 Will lend his horse to go." 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin ~ " That's well 
 said ; 
 
 And for that wine is dear, 
 We will be furnished with our own, 
 
 Which is both bright and clear.". 
 
 John Gilpin kissed his loving wife, 
 O'erjoyed was he to find [bent, 
 
 That, though on pleasure she was 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was 
 brought. 
 
 But yet was not allowed 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was 
 stayed. 
 
 Where they did all get in; 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 
 To dash through thick and thin. 
 
 Smack went the whii), round went 
 the wheels. 
 
 Were never folks so gl.ad. 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 Seized fast the flowing mane, 
 
 And up he got, in haste to ride. 
 But soon came down again; 
 
 w 
 
 « 
 
 
 712 COWPER. 
 
 i 
 
 For saddle-tree scarce reached bad he, 
 
 So stooping down, as needs he must 
 
 
 His journey to begin, 
 
 Who cannot sit upright, 
 
 
 When, turning round his head, lie 
 
 He grasped the mane with both his 
 
 
 saw 
 
 hands, 
 
 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 
 So down be came ; for loss of time, 
 
 His horse, who never in that sort 
 
 
 Although it grieved him sore, 
 
 Had handled been before. 
 
 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he know, 
 
 What thing upon his back had got 
 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; 
 
 
 Were suited to their mind. 
 
 Away went hat and wig; 
 
 
 When Betty screaming came down 
 
 He little dreamt, when he set out, 
 
 
 stairs, 
 
 Of running such a rig. 
 
 
 " The wine is left behind !" 
 
 The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 
 
 
 " Good lack! " quoth he; " yet bring 
 
 Like streamer long and gay. 
 
 
 it me. 
 
 Till, loop and Initton failing both, 
 
 
 My leathern belt likewise. 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 
 In wliich I bear my trusty sword 
 
 
 
 When 1 do exercise." 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 The bottles he had slung ; 
 
 
 Now Mrs. Gilpin (careful soul) 
 
 A bottle swinging at each side. 
 
 
 Had two stone bottles found. 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 
 To hold the liquor that she loved. 
 
 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children 
 screamed. 
 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear. 
 
 Up flew the windows all ; 
 
 
 Through which the belt he drew, 
 
 And every soul cried out, "Well 
 
 
 And hung a bottle on each side. 
 
 done ! ' ' 
 
 
 To make his balance true. 
 
 As loud as he could bawl. 
 
 
 Then over all. that he might be 
 
 Away went Gilpin — v,-ho but he? 
 
 
 Equipped from top to toe. 
 
 His fame soon spread around — 
 
 
 His long red cloak, well brushed and 
 
 " He carries weight! he rides a race! 
 
 
 neat, 
 
 'Tis for a thousand pound ! " 
 
 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 And still, as fast as he drew near. 
 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 'Twas wonderful to view 
 
 
 Upon his nimble steed, 
 
 How in a trice the turnpike-men 
 
 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 And now. as he went bowing down 
 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 
 His reeking head full low. 
 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet. 
 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 
 
 The snorting l)east began to trot. 
 
 AYere shattered at a blo\\'. 
 
 
 Which galled him in bis seat. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road. 
 
 
 So "Fair and softly," .lohn he cried; 
 
 Most piteous to be seen. 
 
 
 But John he cried in vain; 
 
 Which made his horse's flanks to 
 
 
 
 That trot became a gallop soon, 
 
 smoke 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 
COV/PEB. 
 
 713 
 
 But still he seemed to carry weight, 
 With leathern girdle braced; 
 
 For all might see the bottle-necks 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 These gambols did he play, 
 
 Until he came unto the Wash 
 Of Edmonton so gay; 
 
 And tliere he threw the wash about 
 On both sides of the way, 
 
 Just like unto a trundling mop, 
 Or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony spied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 "Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's 
 the house," — 
 They all aloud did cry; 
 "The dinner waits, and we are 
 tired: " 
 Said Gilpin — " So am I." 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 Inclined to tarry there; 
 For why ? — His owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles otf at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift lie flew. 
 
 Shot by an archer strong; 
 So did he fly — which brings me to 
 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore aiiainst his will. 
 Till at his friend's the calender's 
 
 His horse at last stood still. 
 
 The calender, amazed to see 
 His neighbor in such trim. 
 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
 And thus accosted him : 
 
 " What news ? what news ? your 
 tidings tell. 
 
 Tell me you nmst and shall ; 
 Say why bare-headed you are come, 
 
 Or why you come at all ?" 
 
 Xow Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And loved a timely joke; 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 In merry guise he spoke : — 
 
 " I came because your horse would 
 come. 
 
 And, if I well forbode. 
 My hat and wig will soon be here — 
 
 They are upon the road." 
 
 The calender, right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin. 
 Returned him not a single word. 
 
 But to the house went in. 
 
 Whence straight he came with hat 
 and wig — 
 
 A wig tliat flowed behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear, 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 Thus showed his ready wit; 
 
 " My head is twice as big as yours, 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 But let me scrape the dirt away 
 That liangs upon your face; 
 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 Be in a hungry case." 
 
 Said John — " It is my wedding-day, 
 And ail the world would stare 
 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
 And I sliould dine at Ware." 
 
 So, turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 " I am in haste to dine; 
 'Twas for your pleasure you came 
 here. 
 
 You shall go back for mine." 
 
 Ah! luckless speech, and bootless 
 boast ! 
 
 For which he paid full dear; 
 For while he spake, a braying ass 
 
 Did sing most loud and clear; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
 
 Had heard a lion roar. 
 And galloped off with all his might, 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
714 
 
 COW PER. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and^way 
 
 Now let us sing, Long live the king, 
 
 Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 
 
 And Gilpin, long live he; 
 
 He lost them sooner than at first; 
 
 And when he next doth ride abroad, 
 
 For why "? — They were too big. 
 
 May I be there to see I 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 
 
 
 Her hnsband posting down 
 
 
 Into the country far away. 
 
 [From Conversation.] 
 
 She pulled out half a crown ; 
 
 THE TONGUE. 
 
 And thus unto the youth she said 
 
 WoKDS learned by rote, a parrot 
 
 That drove them to the liell, 
 
 may rehearse. 
 
 " This shall be yours when you bring 
 
 But talking is not always to converse; 
 
 back 
 
 Not more distinct from harmony di- 
 
 My husband safe and well." 
 
 vine 
 
 
 The constant creaking of a country 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 sign. 
 
 John coming back amain, 
 
 As alphabets in ivory employ 
 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 
 
 Hour after hour the yet unlettered 
 
 By catching at his rein: 
 
 boy, 
 
 
 Sorting and puzzling with a deal of 
 
 But not performing what he meant. 
 
 glee 
 
 And gladly would have done, 
 
 Those seeds of science called his 
 
 The frightetl steed he frighted more, 
 
 ABC; 
 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 So language in the mouth of the 
 
 
 adult, 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 (Witness its insignificant result,) 
 
 Went post-boy at his heels. 
 
 Too often proves an implement of 
 
 The post-boy's horse right glad to 
 
 play. 
 
 miss 
 
 A toy to sport Viith, and pass time 
 
 The lumbering of the wheels. 
 
 away. 
 
 
 Collect at evening what the day 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road 
 
 brought forth. 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
 
 Compress the sum into its solid worth. 
 
 With post-boy scamijering in the 
 
 And if it weigh the importance of a 
 
 rear. 
 
 fly, 
 
 They raised the hue and cry : 
 
 The scales are false, or algebra a lie. 
 
 " Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highway- 
 man! " 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 
 
 
 [From Conversation.] 
 
 And all and each that passed that 
 way 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 THE UXCERTAIX MAX. 
 
 DuBius is such a scrupulous good 
 
 And now the turnpike-gates again 
 
 nitiii — 
 Yes, you may ca,tch him tripping — 
 
 Flew open in short space; 
 
 if you can. 
 
 The tollmen thinking as before 
 
 He would not with a peremptory 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 tone 
 
 
 Assei't the nose upon his face his 
 
 And so he did ; and won it too ; 
 
 own : 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 
 With hesitation admirably slow. 
 
 Nor stopped till where he had got up 
 
 He humbly hopes — presimies — it 
 
 He did again get down. 
 
 may be so. 
 
COWPEB. 
 
 715 
 
 His evidence, if he were called by 
 
 law 
 To swear to some enormity he srav, 
 For want of prominence and just re- 
 lief, 
 Would hang an honest man and save 
 
 a thief. 
 Through constant dread of giving 
 
 truth offence, 
 He ties up all his liearers in suspense: 
 Knows what he knows as if he knew 
 
 it not; 
 What he remembers seems to have 
 
 forgot ; 
 His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall. 
 Centring at last in having none at 
 
 afl. 
 
 [From Conversation .'[ 
 THE EMPHATIC TALKER. 
 
 The emphatic speaker dearly loves 
 
 to 0])pose, 
 In contact inconvenient, nose to nose. 
 As if the gnomon on his neighbor's 
 
 phiz. 
 Touched with the magnet, had at- 
 tracted his. 
 His whispered theme, dilated and at 
 
 large, 
 Proves after all a windgun's airy 
 
 charge — 
 An extract of his diary, — no more, — 
 A tasteless journey of the day before. 
 He walked abroad, overtaken in the 
 
 rain, 
 Called on a friend, drank tea, stepped 
 
 home again, 
 Resumed his purpose, had a world of 
 
 talk 
 With one he stumbled on, and lost 
 
 his walk. 
 I interrupt him with a sudden bow, 
 "Adieu, dear sir I lest you should 
 
 lose it now." 
 
 [From Conversation.] 
 DESCANTING ON ILLNESS. 
 
 Some men employ their health, an 
 
 ugly trick, 
 In making known how oft they have 
 
 been sick. 
 
 And give us in recitals of disease, 
 
 A doctor's trouble, but without the 
 fees; 
 
 Relate how many weeks they kept 
 their bed. 
 
 How an emetic or cathartic sped : 
 
 Nothing is slightly touched, much 
 less forgot. 
 
 Nose, ears, and eyes seem present on 
 the spot. 
 
 Now the distemper, spite of draught 
 or pill, 
 
 Victorious seemed, and now the doc- 
 tors skill; 
 
 And now — alas, for unforeseen mis- 
 haps ! 
 
 They put on a damp nightcap and 
 relapse : 
 
 They thought they must have died, 
 they were so bad ; 
 
 Their peevish hearers almost wish 
 they had. 
 
 [From Conversation.] 
 
 A FAITHFUL PICTURE OF ORDI- 
 NARY SOCIETY. 
 
 The circle formed, we sit in silent 
 
 state. 
 Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate; 
 '' Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," 
 
 uttered softly, show 
 Every five minutes how the minutes 
 
 go; 
 Each individual, suffering a con- 
 straint — 
 Poetry may, but colors cannot, 
 
 paint, — 
 As if in close committee on the sky, 
 Reports it hot or cold, or wet or 
 
 dry. 
 And finds a changing clime a happy 
 
 source 
 Of wise reflection and well-timed 
 
 discourse. 
 We next inquire, but softly and by 
 
 stealth. 
 Like conservators of the public 
 
 health. 
 Of epidemic throats, if sitch there are 
 Of coughs and rheums, and phthisic 
 
 and catarrh. 
 
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm 
 
 ensues, 
 Filled up at last with interesting 
 
 news. 
 Who danced with whom, and who 
 
 are like to wed ; 
 And who is hanged, and M'ho is 
 
 brought to bed; 
 But fear to call a more important 
 
 cause, 
 As if 'twere treason against English 
 
 laws. 
 The visit paid, with ecstasy we come. 
 As from a seven years' transportation, 
 
 home. 
 And there resume an unembarrassed 
 
 brow, 
 Recovering what we lost we know 
 
 not how, 
 The faculties that seemed reduced to 
 
 nought. 
 Expression and the privilege of 
 
 thouiiht. 
 
 (From Conversation.'] 
 THE CAPTIOUS. 
 
 Some fretful tempers wince at every 
 
 touch, 
 You always do too little or too much : 
 You speak with life in hopes to en- 
 tertain. 
 Your elevated voice goes through the 
 
 brain ; 
 You fall at once into a lower key. 
 That's worse — the drone-pipe of an 
 
 humble-bee. 
 The southern sash admits too strong 
 
 a light, 
 You rise and drop the curtain — now 
 
 'tis night. 
 He shakes with cold, you stir the tire 
 
 and strive 
 To make a blaze — that's roasting 
 
 him alive. 
 Serve him with venison, and he 
 
 chooses fish ; 
 With sole — that's just the sort he 
 
 wovdd not wish. 
 He takes what he at first professed to 
 
 loatlie. 
 And in due time feeds heartily on 
 
 both. 
 
 PAIRING-TIME ANTICIPATED. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 I SHALL not ask Jean Jacques Rous- 
 seau 
 If birds confabulate or no; 
 'Tis clear that they were always able 
 To hold discourse, at least in fable; 
 And even the child who knows no 
 
 better 
 Than to interpret by the letter, 
 A story of a cock and bidl 
 Must have a most uncommon skull. 
 
 it chanced then on a winter's rlinear days of frugal hash: 
 Wine hadst thou seldom; wilt thou 
 
 be so vain 
 As to decide on claret or champagne ? 
 Dost thou from me derive this taste 
 
 sublime, 
 Who order port the dozen at a time ? 
 When (every glass held precious in 
 
 our eyes) 
 AVe judged the value by the bottle's 
 
 size: [sume, 
 
 Then never merit for thy praise as- 
 Its worth well knows each servant in 
 
 the room. 
 
GRANCH. 
 
 719 
 
 [From The Patron.'] 
 
 THE YOUNG POET'S VISIT TO 
 THE HALL. 
 
 And now arriving at the Hall, he 
 
 tried 
 For air composed, serene and satis- 
 fied; 
 As he had practised in his room alone, 
 And there acquired a free and easy 
 
 tone; 
 There he had said, "Whatever the 
 
 degree 
 A man obtains, what more than man 
 
 is he ■? " ' 
 And when arrived — " This room is 
 
 but a room, 
 Can aught we see the steady sold 
 
 o'ercome ? 
 Let me in all a manly firmness 
 
 show, 
 Upheld by talents, and their vakie 
 
 know." 
 
 This reason urged; but it surpassed 
 his skill 
 
 To be in act as manly as in will ; 
 
 When he his lordship and the lady 
 saw. 
 
 Brave as he was, he felt oppressed 
 with awe ; 
 
 And spite of verse, that so much 
 praise had won, 
 
 The poet found he was the bailiff's 
 son. 
 But dinner came, and the succeed- 
 ing hours 
 
 Fixed his weak nerves, and raised his 
 failing powers : 
 
 Praised and assured, he ventured once 
 or twice 
 
 On some remark, and bravely broke 
 the ice; 
 
 So that at night, reflecting on his 
 words. 
 
 He found, in time, he might con- 
 verse with lords. 
 
 Christopher Pearse Cranch. 
 
 SHELLING PEAS. 
 
 No, Tom. yon may banter as much as you please; 
 
 But it's all the result of the shellin' them peas. 
 
 Why, I had n't the slightest idee, do you know, 
 
 That so serious a matter would out of it grow. 
 
 I tell you v\hat, Tom, I do feel kind o' scared. 
 
 I dreamed it, I hoped it, but never once dared 
 
 To breathe it to her. And besides, 1 nuist say 
 
 I always half fancied she fancied Jim Wray, 
 
 So I felt kind o' stuffy and proud, and took care 
 
 To be out of the way when that feller was there 
 
 A danglin' around; for thinks I, if it's him 
 
 That Katy likes best, what's the use lookin' grim 
 
 At Katy or Jim, — for it's all up with me; 
 
 And I'd better jest let 'em alone, do you see ? 
 
 But you would n't have thought it; that girl never keered 
 
 The snap of a pea-pod for Jim's bushy beard. 
 
 Well, here's how it was. I was takin' some berries 
 
 Across near her garden to leave at Aunt Mary's; 
 
 When, jest as I come to the old ellum-tree. 
 
 All alone in the shade, that June mornin', was she — 
 
 Shellin' peas — setting there on a garden settee. 
 
 I swan, she was handsomer 'n ever I seen. 
 
 Like a rose all alone in a moss-work o' green. 
 
GRANGE. 
 
 Well, there wasn't no nse; so, says I, I'll jest linger 
 
 And gaze at her here, hid behind a syringa. 
 
 But she heard me a movin', and looked a bit frightened, 
 
 So I come and stood near her. I fancied she brightened, 
 
 And seemed sort o' pleased. So I hoped she was well ; 
 
 And — would she allow me to help her to shell ? 
 
 For she sot with a monstrous big dish full of peas 
 
 Jest fresh from the vines, which she held on her knees. 
 
 " May I help you. Miss Katy ? " says I. " As you please, 
 
 Mr. Baxter," says she. " But you're busy, I guess " — 
 
 Glancin' down at my berries, and then at her dress. 
 
 " Not the least. There's no hurry. It ain't very late; 
 
 And I'd rather be here, and Aunt Maiy can wait." 
 
 So I sot down beside her; an' as nobody seen us, 
 
 1 jest took the dish, and I held it between us. 
 
 And I thought to myself I must make an endeavor 
 
 To know wiiich she likes, Jim or me, now or never! 
 
 But I couldn't say nothin'. We sot there and held 
 
 That green pile between us. She shelled, and I shelled; 
 
 AnApop went the pods; and I couldn't help thinkin' 
 
 Of popping the question. A kind of a sinkin' 
 
 Come over my spirits; till at last I got out, 
 
 '• Mister Wray's an admirer of yours, I've no doubt 
 
 You see him quite often." " Well, sometimes. But why 
 
 And what if I did ?" " O, well, nothin'," says I. 
 
 " Some folks says you're goin' to marry him, tliough." 
 
 " Who says so ? " says she; and she flared up like tow 
 
 When you throw in a match. " Well, some folks that I know." 
 
 " 'T ahi't true, sir," says she. And she snapped a big pod, 
 
 Till the peas, right and left, flew all over the sod. 
 
 Then I looked in her eyes, but she only looked down 
 
 With a blush she tried to chase off with a frown. 
 
 " Then it's somebody else you like better," says I. 
 
 " No, it ain't though." says she; and I thought she would cry. 
 
 Then I tried to say somethin' ; it stuck in my throat. 
 
 And all my idees were upset and afloat. 
 
 But I said I knew somebody 'd loved her so long — 
 
 Though he never had told her — with feelin's so strong 
 
 He was ready to die at her feet, if she chosed. 
 
 If she only could love him! — I hardly supposed 
 
 That she cared for him much, though. And so Tom, — and so, — 
 
 For I thought that I saw how the matter would go, — 
 
 With my heart all a jumpin' with fapture, I found 
 
 I had taken her hand, and my arm was around 
 
 Her waist ere I knew it, and she witli her head 
 
 On my shoulder, — but no, I won't tell what she said. 
 
 The birds sang above us; our secret was theirs; 
 
 The leaves whispered soft in the wandering airs. 
 
 I tell you the world was a new world to me. 
 
 I can talk of these things like a book now, you see. 
 
 But the peas ? Ah, the peas in the pods were a mess 
 
 Rather bigger than those that we shelled, you may guess. 
 
 It's risky to set Mith a girl shellin' peas. 
 
 You may tease me now, Tom, just as much as you please. 
 
CRANCH. 
 
 721 
 
 THE DISPUTE OF THE SEVEN DAYS. 
 
 Once on a time the days of the week 
 Quarrelled and made bad weather. 
 
 The point was which of the seven 
 was best; 
 So they all disputed together. 
 
 And Monday said, " I wash the 
 clothes " ; 
 And Tuesday said, " I air 'em" ; 
 And Wednesday said, " I iron the 
 shirts" ; 
 And Thursday said, " I wear 'em." 
 
 And Friday, " I'm the day for fish " ; 
 
 And Saturday, " Children love 
 
 me" ; 
 
 And Suu,day, "I am the Sabbath 
 
 day, 
 
 I'm sure there are none above me." 
 
 One said, " I am the fittest for 
 work" ; 
 And one, " I am fittest for leisure." 
 Another, "I'm best for prayer and 
 praise"; [ure." 
 
 And auotlier, " I'm best for pleas- 
 Arguing thus, they flapped their 
 wings. 
 And puffed up every featlier; 
 They blew and rained and snowed 
 and liailed: 
 There never was seen such weather. 
 
 Old P'ather Time was passing by, 
 And heard the hurly-burly. 
 
 Said he, "Here's something going 
 wrong ; 
 It's well I was up so early. 
 
 "These children of mine have lost 
 their wits 
 
 And seem to be all non compos. 
 1 never knew them to gabble thus. 
 
 Hollo there! — stop the rumpus! 
 
 '* I should think you a flock of angry 
 geese. 
 To hear your screaming and bawl- 
 ing. 
 Indeed, it would seem by the way it 
 snows, 
 Goose-feathers are certainly falling. 
 
 "You. Sunday, sir, with your starched 
 cravat. 
 
 Black coat, and church-veneering: 
 Tell me the cause of this angry spat; 
 
 Speak loud, — I am hard of hearing. 
 
 " Yon are the foremost talker here; 
 
 The wisest sure you should be. 
 I little thought such a deuce of a row 
 
 As you are all making, could be." 
 
 Then Simday said, " Good Father 
 Time, 
 
 The case is clear as noonday; 
 For ever since the world was made. 
 
 The Lord's day has been Sunday. 
 
 "The church — " Here Monday 
 started u}): 
 " The folks are glad when you 
 leave 'em; 
 They all want me to give 'em work, 
 And the pleasures of which you 
 bereave 'em." 
 
 But Tuesday said, " I finish your 
 
 chores, 
 
 And do them as fine as a fiddle." 
 
 And Wednesday, " I am the best of 
 
 you all 
 
 Because I stand in the middle." 
 
 And Thursday, Friday, Saturday, 
 each 
 Said things that I can't remember. 
 And so they might have argued their 
 case 
 From March until December. 
 
 But Father Tempus cut them short: 
 " My children, why this pother"? 
 
 There is no best, there is no worst; 
 One day 's just like another. 
 
 •• To God's great eye all shine alike 
 As in their primal beauty. 
 
 That day is best whose deeds are best. 
 That worst that fails in duty. 
 
 " Where Justice lights the passing 
 hours, 
 
 Where Love is wise and tender, 
 There beams the radiance of the skies, 
 
 There shines a day of splendor." 
 
LOB SOX— DUYDEN. 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 
 MORE POETS YET! 
 
 " More poets yetl " — 1 bear him say. 
 Aiming his heavy hand to slay; — 
 
 " Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' 
 They seem to sprout where'er I go; — 
 I killed a host but yesterday ! " 
 
 Slash on, O Hercules! You may: 
 Your task's at best a Hydra-fray; 
 And though you cut, not less will grow 
 More poets yet ! 
 
 Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
 The first bliml motions of the May ? 
 
 Who shall ontljiot the morning glow. 
 
 Or stem the full heart's overflow? 
 Who ? There will rise, till time decay. 
 More poets yet ! 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 [From " Absalom and Achitophel."] 
 A CHAIiACTEIi. 
 
 A -MAN so various that he seemed to 
 
 be 
 Not one, but all mankind's epitome: 
 Stiff in opinions, always in the 
 
 wrong ; 
 Was everything by starts, and notliing 
 
 long; 
 But, in the course of one revolving 
 
 moon. 
 Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and 
 
 buffoon : 
 Then all for women, painting, rliym- 
 
 ing, drinking. 
 Besides ten thousand freaks that died 
 
 in thinking. 
 Blest madman, wlio cotild every hour 
 
 employ, 
 With something new to wish, or to 
 
 enjoy ! 
 Railing and praising were his usual 
 
 themes ; 
 
 And both, to show his judgment in 
 extremes: 
 
 So over-violent, or over-civil. 
 
 That everv man with liim was God or 
 Devil. 
 
 In squandering wealth was his pecu- 
 liar art; 
 
 Nothing went unrewarded but desert. 
 
 Beggared by fools, wliom still he found 
 too late; 
 
 He had his jest, and they had liis 
 estate. 
 
 FROM "THE COCK AND THE FOX." 
 
 A FOX, full-fraught Avith seeming 
 
 sanctity, 
 That feared an oath, but, like the 
 
 devil, would lie; 
 Who looked like Lent, and liad the 
 
 holy leer. 
 And durst not sin before he said his 
 
 prayer;. 
 
DBYDEN. 
 
 723 
 
 This pious cheat, that never sucked 
 
 the blood. 
 Nor chewed the flesli of lambs, — 
 
 but when he could ; 
 Had passed three summers in the 
 
 neighboring wood: 
 And musing long, whom next to cir- 
 cumvent. 
 On Chanticleer his wicked fancy 
 
 bent ; 
 And in liis high imagination cast, 
 By stratagem to gratify his taste. 
 The plot contrived, before the break 
 
 of day. 
 Saint Reynard through the hedge had 
 
 made his way ; 
 The pale was next, but proudly with 
 
 a bound 
 He leapt the fence of the forbidden 
 
 ground : 
 Yet fearing to be seen, within a bed 
 Of coleworts he concealed his wily 
 
 head ; 
 Then skuilced t 11 afternoon, and 
 
 watched bio time, 
 {As murderers use) to perj^etrate his 
 
 crime. 
 
 The rock, that of his flesh Avas ever 
 
 free. 
 Sung merrier than the mermaid in the 
 
 sea: 
 And so befell, that as he cast his eye 
 Among the coleworts on a butterfly. 
 He saw false Keynard where he lav 
 
 full low: 
 I need not swear he had no list to 
 
 crow : 
 But cried, cock, cock, and gave a sud- 
 den start, 
 As sore dismayed and frighted at his 
 
 heart. 
 For birds and beasts, informed by 
 
 Nature, know 
 Kinds opposite to theirs, and fly their 
 
 foe. 
 So Chanticleer, who never saw a 
 
 fox. 
 Yet slumii'd him as a sailor shuns the 
 
 rocks. 
 But the false loon, who could not 
 
 work his will 
 By open force, employed his flattering 
 
 skill ; 
 
 I hope, my lord, said he, I not offend ; 
 Are you afraid of me, that am your 
 
 friend ? 
 I were a beast indeed to do you 
 
 wrong, 
 I, who have loved and honored you so 
 
 long: 
 Stay, gentle sir, nor take a false 
 
 alarm. 
 For on my soul I never meant you 
 
 harm. 
 I come no spy, nor as a traitor press. 
 To learn the secrets of your soft re- 
 cess : 
 Far be from Reynard so profane a 
 
 thought. 
 But by the sweetness of your voice 
 
 was brought : 
 For, as I bid my beads, by chance I 
 
 heard 
 The song as of an angel in the yard ; 
 
 My lord, your sire familiarly I 
 
 knew, 
 A peer deserving such a son as you: 
 He, with your lady-mother, (whom 
 
 Heaven rest) 
 Has often graced my house, and been 
 
 my guest : 
 To view his living features does me 
 
 good, 
 For I am your poor neighbor in the 
 
 wood ; 
 And in my cottage shoidd be proud 
 
 to see 
 The worthy heir of my friend's 
 
 family. 
 But since I speak of singing, let 
 
 me say. 
 As with an upright heart I safely 
 
 may, 
 That, save yourself, there breathes 
 
 not on the ground 
 One lilve your father for a silver- 
 sound. I day. 
 So sweetly would he wake the winter- 
 That matrons to the church mistook 
 
 their way. 
 And thought they heard the merry 
 
 organ play. 
 And he to raise his voice with artful 
 
 care, 
 (What will not beaux attempt to 
 
 please the fair ?) 
 
724 
 
 DRY DEN. 
 
 On tiptoe stood to sing with greater 
 
 strength, 
 And stretch'd his comely neck at all 
 
 the length : 
 And while he strained his voice to 
 
 pierce the skies, 
 As saints in raptures use, would shut 
 
 his eyes. 
 That the sound striving through the 
 
 narrow throat. 
 His winking might avail to mend the 
 
 note. 
 
 The cock was pleased to hear him 
 
 speak so fair, 
 And proud beside, as solar people 
 
 are; 
 Nor could the treason from the truth 
 
 descry, 
 ►So was he ravish'd with this flattery: 
 .So much the more, as from a little 
 
 elf, 
 He had a high opinion of himself; 
 Though sickly, slender, and not large 
 
 of limb. 
 Concluding all the world was made 
 
 for him. 
 
 This Chanticleer, of whom the 
 
 story sings, 
 Stood high upon his toes, and clapp'd 
 
 his wings; 
 Then stretch'd his neck, and wink'd 
 
 with both his eyes. 
 Ambitious as he sought the Olympic 
 
 prize. 
 But while he pained himself to raise 
 
 his note, 
 False Reynard rushed, and caught 
 
 him by the throat. 
 Then on his back he laid the precious 
 
 load, 
 And sought his wonted shelter of the 
 
 wood ; 
 Swiftly he made his way, the mischief 
 
 done. 
 Of all imheeded, and pursued by 
 
 none. 
 
 But see how Fortune can confound 
 the wise. 
 And when they least expect it, turn 
 the dice. 
 
 The captive cock, who scarce could 
 
 draw his breath. 
 And lay within the very jaws of 
 
 death ; 
 Yet in this agony his fancy wrought, 
 And fear supplied him with this 
 
 happy thought: 
 Yours is the prize, victorious prince, 
 
 said he, 
 The vicar my defeat, and all the 
 
 village see. 
 Enjoy your friendly fortune while 
 
 you may, 
 And bid the churls that envy you the 
 
 pi-ey, 
 Call back their mongrel curs, and 
 
 cease tlieir cry. 
 See, fools, the shelter of the wood is 
 
 nigh. 
 And Chanticleer in your despite shall 
 
 die. 
 He shall be plucked and eaten to the 
 
 bone. 
 'Tis well advised, in faith it shall 
 
 be done ; 
 This Reynard said: but as the word 
 
 lie spoke. 
 The prisoner with a spring from pris- 
 on broke: 
 Then stretch'd his feathered fans with 
 
 all his might. 
 And to the neighboring maple winged 
 
 his flight. 
 Whom when the traitor safe on tree 
 
 beheld, 
 He cursed the gods, with shame and 
 
 sorrow filled ; 
 Shame for his folly, sorrow out of 
 
 time. 
 For plotting an unprofitable crime ; 
 Yet mastering both, the artificer of 
 
 lies 
 Renews the assault, and his last bat- 
 tery tries. 
 Though I, said he, did ne'er In 
 
 thought offend. 
 How justly may my lord suspect his 
 
 friend '? 
 The appearance is against me, I con- 
 fess. 
 Who seemingly have put yon in dis- 
 tress : 
 
This, since you take it ill, I must re- 
 pent. 
 
 Though Heaven can witness, with no 
 bad intent | cheer 
 
 I practised it, to make you taste your 
 
 With double pleasure, first prepared 
 by fear. 
 
 Descend! so help me Jove I as you 
 
 shall find 
 That Keynard conies of no dissem- 
 bling kind. 
 Nay, quoth the cock ; but I beshrew 
 us both, 
 If I believe a saint upon his oath: 
 An honest man may take a knave's 
 
 advice. 
 But idiots only may be cozened twice: 
 Once warned is well bewared. Not 
 flattering lies 
 
 Shall soothe me more to sing with 
 winking eyes. 
 
 And open mouth, for fear of catch- 
 ing flies. 
 
 Who blindfold walks upon a river's 
 brim, 
 
 AVhen he should see, has he deserved 
 to swim ? 
 
 Better, Sir Cock, let all contentions 
 cease, 
 
 Come down, said Reynard, let us treat 
 of peace. 
 
 A peace with all my soul, said Chan- 
 ticleer ; 
 
 But, M'ith your favor, I will treat it 
 here: 
 
 And lest the truce with treason should 
 be mix'd, 
 
 'Tis my concern to have the tree be- 
 twixt. » 
 
 John Gay. 
 
 THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. 
 
 Friendship, like love, is but a 
 
 name. 
 Unless to one you stint the flame. 
 The child, whom many fathers share. 
 Hath seldom known a father's care. 
 'Tis thus in friendships; who depend 
 On many, rarely find a friend. 
 A hare, who, in a civil way. 
 Complied with everything, like Gay, 
 Was known by all the bestial train 
 Who haunt the wood, or graze the 
 
 plain; 
 Her care was never to offend ; 
 And every creature was her friend. 
 As forth she went at early dawn. 
 To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, 
 Behind she hears the hunter's cries. 
 And from the deep-mouthed thunder 
 
 flies. 
 She starts, she stops, she pants for 
 
 breath. 
 She hears the near advance of death ; 
 She doubles, to mislead the hound. 
 And measures back her mazy round ; 
 Till, fainting in the public way. 
 Half-dead with fear, she gasping lay. 
 
 What transport in her bosom grew 
 When first the horse appeared in view ! 
 " Let me," says she, " yom' back 
 ascend. 
 And owe my safety to a friend. 
 You know my feet betray my flight: 
 To friendship every burden 's light." 
 The horse replied, "Poor honest, 
 puss, 
 It grieves my heart to see thee thus: 
 Be comforted, relief is near, 
 For all your friends are in the rear." 
 She next the stately bull implored; 
 And thus replied the mighty lord: 
 " Since every beast alive can tell 
 That I sincerely wish you well, 
 I may, without offence, pretend 
 To take the freedom of a friend. 
 To leave you thus might seem un- 
 kind; 
 But, see, the goat is just behind." 
 The goat remarked, " Her pulse 
 was high, 
 Her languid head, her heavy eye: 
 My back." says he, "may do you 
 
 harm ; 
 The sheep's at hand, and wool is 
 warm." 
 
726 
 
 HALPINE. 
 
 The sheep was feeble, ami com- 
 plained, 
 
 " His sides a load of wool sustained; 
 
 Said he was slow, confessed his fears ; 
 
 For hounds eat sheep as well as 
 hares." 
 She now the trotting calf addressed ; 
 
 To save from death a friend dis- 
 tressed. 
 " Shall I," says he, "of tender age, 
 
 In this important care engage ? 
 
 Older and abler passed you by; 
 
 IIow strong are those! how weak 
 am I! 
 
 Should I presume to bear you hence. 
 
 Those friends of mine may take of- 
 fence. 
 
 Excuse me, then ; you know my heart ; 
 
 But dearest friends, alas! must part. 
 
 How shall we all lament! Adieu; 
 
 For see, the hounds are just in view." 
 
 THE MOTHER, THE NURSE, AND 
 THE FAIRY. 
 
 " Give me a son." The blessing 
 
 sent, 
 Were ever parents more content ? 
 How partial are their doting eyes! 
 No child is half so fair and wise. 
 AVaked to the morning's pleasing 
 
 care. 
 The mother rose and sought her heir. 
 She saw the nurse like one possest. 
 With wringing hands and sobbing 
 
 breast. 
 
 " Sure, some disaster has befell; 
 
 Speak, nurse, I hope the boy is well." 
 " Dear madam, think not me to 
 blame ; 
 
 Invisible the fairy came: 
 
 Your precious babe is hence con- 
 veyed, 
 
 And in the place a changeling laid. 
 
 Where are the father's mouth and 
 nose ? 
 
 The mother's eyes, as black as sloes ? 
 
 See, here, a shocking awkward crea- 
 ture. 
 
 That speaks a fool in every featm-e." 
 *' The woman 's blind," the mother 
 cries, 
 
 " I see wit sparkle in his eyes." 
 " Lord, madam, what a squinting 
 leer ! 
 
 Xo doubt the fairy hath been here." 
 Just as she spoke, a prying sprite 
 
 Pops through the keyhole swift as 
 light; 
 
 Perched on the cradle's top he stands, 
 
 And thus her folly reprimands: 
 "Whence sprung the vain, con- 
 ceited lie. 
 
 That we with fools the world supply ? 
 
 What! give our sprightly race away 
 
 For the dull, helpless sons of clay! 
 
 Besides, by partial fondness shown, 
 
 Like you, we dote upon our own. 
 
 When yet was ever found a motlier 
 
 Who'd give her booby for another '? 
 
 And should we change with human 
 breed, 
 
 Well might we pass for fools indeed." 
 
 Charles Graham Halpine (Miles O'Reilly). 
 
 QUAKEUDOM,- A FORMAL CALL. 
 
 Through her forced, abnormal 
 
 quiet 
 Flashed the soul of frolic riot. 
 And a most malicious laughter lighted 
 up her downcast eyes ; 
 All in vain I tried each topic. 
 Ranged from polar climes to tropic, 
 Every conunonplace I started met 
 with yes-or-uo replies. 
 
 For her mother — stiff and stately. 
 
 As if starched and ironed lately — 
 
 Sat erect, with rigid elbows bedded 
 
 thus in curving palms; 
 
 There she sat on guard before 
 
 us, 
 And in words precise, decorous. 
 And most calm, reviewed the weather, 
 and recited several psalms. 
 
HARTE. 
 
 727 
 
 How without abruptly ending 
 Tliis my visit, and otfendiug 
 Wealtliy iieiglibors, was the prol)leni 
 which employed my mental 
 care ; 
 When the butler, bowing lowly, 
 Uttered clearly, stiffly, slowly, 
 " Madam, please, the gardener wants 
 you," — Heaven, I thought, 
 has heard my prayer. 
 
 " Pardon me!" shegrandly uttered; 
 Bowing low. I gladly muttered, 
 "Siu-ely, Madam!" and, relieved I 
 
 turned to scan the daughter's 
 
 face : 
 Ha! what pent-up mirth outflashes 
 From beneath those pencilled 
 
 lashes ! 
 How the drill of Quaker custom yields 
 
 to Nature's brilliant grace. 
 
 Brightly springs the prisoned foun- 
 
 ■^tain [tain 
 
 From the side of Delphi's moun- 
 
 When the stone that weighed upon its 
 buoyant life is thrust aside ; 
 So the long-enforced stagnation 
 Of the maiden's conversation 
 Now imparted fivefold brilliance to 
 its ever-varying tide. 
 
 Widely ranging, quickly changing, 
 Witty, winning, from beginning 
 Unto enil 1 listened, merely flinging 
 in a casual word ; 
 Eloquent, and yet how sunple! 
 Hand and eye, and eddying dimi)le, 
 Tongue and lip together made a 
 music seen as well as heard. 
 
 When the noonday woods are ring- 
 ing* . . 
 All the birds of summer singing, 
 Suddenly there falls a silence, and we 
 know a serpent nigh : 
 So upon the door a rattle 
 Stopped our animated tattle. 
 And the stately mother found us prim 
 enough to suit her eye. 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
 DOW'S FLAT. 
 
 Dow''!^ Flat. That's its name. 
 
 And I reckon that you 
 Are a stranger ? The same ? 
 Well, I thought it was true, 
 For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first view. 
 
 It was called after Dow, — 
 
 Which the same was an ass ; 
 And as to the how 
 
 Thet the thing kem to pass, — 
 Just tie up your hoss to tliat buckeye, and sit ye down here in the grass. 
 
 You see this yer Dow 
 
 Hed the worst kind of luck; 
 He slipped up someliow 
 
 On each thing thet he struck. 
 Why, pf he'd a' straddled that fence-rail the derned thing 'ed get up and 
 buck. 
 
72» 
 
 HAUTE. 
 
 He mined on the bat- 
 Till he couldn't pay rates; 
 He was smaslied by a car 
 
 When he tunnelled with Bates; 
 And right on the top of his trouble keni his wife and five kids from the 
 States. 
 
 It was rough, — mighty rough; 
 But the boys they stood by, 
 And they brought him the stuff 
 For a house, on the sly ; 
 x\.nd the old woman, — well, she did washing, and took on when no one 
 was nigh. 
 
 But this yer luck of Dow's 
 
 Was so powerful mean 
 That tlie spring near his liouse 
 Drieu right up on the green ; 
 And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen. 
 
 Then the bar petered out, 
 
 And the boys wouldn't stay; 
 And the chills got about. 
 
 And his wife fell away ; 
 But Dow. in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way. 
 
 One day, — it was June, — 
 
 And a year ago, jest, — 
 This Dow kem at noon 
 
 To his work like the rest. 
 With a sliovel and pick on Ins shoulder, and a derringer hid in his breast. 
 
 He goes to the well. 
 
 And he stands on the brink. 
 And stops for a spell 
 Jest to listen and think: 
 For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you sec, kinder made the cuss 
 bluik. 
 
 His two ragged gals 
 
 In the gulch were at play. 
 And a gownd that was Sal's 
 Kinder flapped on a bay : 
 Not much for a man to be leavln', but his all, — as I've hecr'd the folks say. 
 
 And — that's a peart hoss 
 
 Thet you've got — ain't it now ? 
 What might be her cost ? 
 Eh '? Oil !— Well then, Dow — 
 Let's see, —well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow. 
 
 For a blow of his pick 
 
 Sorter caved in the side. 
 And he looked and turned sick, 
 Then he trembled and cried ; 
 For you see the dern cuss liad struck — " Water ?" — Beg your parding, 
 young man, there you lied ! 
 
HARTE. 
 
 729 
 
 It was (jold, — in the quartz, 
 
 And it ran all alike; 
 And 1 reckon live oughts 
 
 Was the worth of that strike; 
 And that house with the coopilow's his'n, — which the same isn't bad for 
 a Pike. 
 
 Thet's why it's Dow' s Hat; 
 
 And the thing of it is 
 That he kinder got that 
 
 Through sheer contrairiness: 
 For 'twas icater the derned ciiss was seekin', and his luck made him certain 
 to miss. 
 
 Thet's so. Thar's your way 
 
 To the left of yon tree ; 
 But — a — look h'yur, say. 
 Won't you come up to tea ? 
 No? Well, then the ne.\t time you're passin' ; and ask after Dow, — and 
 thet's nte. 
 
 PLAIN LAXGUAGE FIIOM TRUTH- 
 FUL JAMES. 
 
 POPULAULY KNOWN AS THE 
 CHINEE." 
 
 HEATHEN 
 
 Which I wish to remark — 
 And my language is plain — 
 
 That for ways that are dark 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 
 TJie heatlien Chinee is peculiar: 
 Which the same I would rise to 
 explain. 
 
 Ah Sin was liis name; 
 
 And I shall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 
 What that name might imply ; 
 But liis smile it was pensive and 
 childlike, 
 
 As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 
 
 It was August the third. 
 
 And quite soft was the skies, 
 ^Vliich it might be inferred 
 
 Tliat Ah Sin wasUkewise; 
 Yet he played it that day upon Wil- 
 liam 
 
 And me in a way I despise. 
 
 Which we had a small game, 
 And Ah Sin took a hand: 
 
 It was euchre. Tlie same 
 He did not understand. 
 
 But he smiled as he sat by the table. 
 With the smile that was childlike 
 and bland. 
 
 Yet the cards they were stocked 
 
 In a way that 1 grieve. 
 And my feelings were shocked 
 At the state of Nye's sleeve, 
 Which was stuffed full of aces and 
 bowers, 
 And the same with intent to de- 
 ceive. 
 
 But the hands that were played 
 
 By that heathen CHiinee, 
 And the points that he made, 
 
 AVere quite frightful to see, — 
 Till at last he put down a right 
 bower. 
 Which the same Nye had dealt 
 unto me. 
 
 Then I looked up at Nye, 
 And he gazed upon me; 
 And he rose with a sigli. 
 
 And said, " Can this be '? 
 We are ruined by Chinese cheap 
 labor," — 
 And he went for tliat heathen 
 Chinee. 
 
 In the scene that ensued 
 I did not take a hand. 
 
730 
 
 HA Y 
 
 But the floor it was strewed, 
 
 Like tlie leaves on the strand, 
 Witli the cards tliat Ah Sin had been 
 liiding 
 In the game "he did not under- 
 stand." 
 
 In his sleeves, wliich were long, 
 He had twenty-four jaclcs, — 
 
 Which was coming it strong, 
 Yet I state but the facts. 
 
 And Ave foimd on his nails whicli 
 
 were taper, — [ wax. 
 
 What is frequent in tapers, — that's 
 
 Wliich is why I remark. 
 And my language is plain, 
 
 That for ways that are dark. 
 And for tricks tliat are vain, 
 
 The lieathen Chinee is peculiar, — 
 Wliich the same I am free to main- 
 tain. 
 
 John Hay. 
 
 LITTLE BREECHES. 
 
 I don't go much on religion, 
 
 I never ain't had no show; 
 But I've got amiddlin' tiglit grip, sir. 
 
 On the liandf 111 of things I know. 
 I don't pan out on the prophets 
 
 And free-will, and that sort of 
 thing, — 
 But I b'lieve in God and tlie angels. 
 
 Ever sence one night last spring. 
 
 I come into town with some turnips. 
 
 And my little Gabe came along, — 
 No four-year-old in tlie county 
 
 Could beat liim for pretty and 
 strong. 
 Peart and chipper and sassy. 
 
 Always ready to swear and fight, — 
 And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker 
 
 Jest to Iveep his milk-teetli white. 
 
 The snow come down like a blanlcet 
 
 As I passed by Taggart's store; 
 I went in for a jug of molasses 
 
 And left the team at tlie door. 
 They scared at something and start- 
 ed, — 
 
 I heard one little squall, 
 And liell-to-split over the prairie. 
 
 Went team. Little Breeches and all. 
 
 Hell-to-spMt over the prairie! 
 
 I was almost froze with skeer; 
 But we rousted up some torches, 
 
 And sarched for 'em far and near. 
 
 At last we struck bosses and wagon. 
 Snowed under a soft white mound, 
 
 Upsot, dead beat, — but of little Gabe 
 No hide nor liair was found. 
 
 And here all hope soured on me. 
 
 Of my fellow-critter's aid, — 
 I jest flopped down on my marrow- 
 bones, 
 Crotcli-deep in the snow, and 
 prayed. 
 By this, the torches was played out, 
 
 And me and Isrul Parr 
 Went off for some wood to a sheep- 
 fold 
 That he said was somewhar thar. 
 
 We found it at last, and a little shed 
 Where tliey sliut up the lambs at 
 night. 
 We locked in and seen tliem hud- 
 dled thar. 
 So warm and sleepy and white; 
 And THAR sot Little Breeclies and 
 cliirped. 
 As peart as ever you see. 
 " I want a chaw of terbacker. 
 And that's wliat's the matter of 
 
 How did he git thar? Angels. 
 
 He could never have walked in 
 tliat storm ; 
 They jest scooped down and toted 
 him 
 To wliar it was safe and warm. 
 
HAY. 
 
 731 
 
 And 1 think that saving a little child, 
 And bi'inging him to liis own, 
 
 Is a denied sight better business 
 Than loafing round the Throne. 
 
 JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE 
 BELLE. 
 
 Wall, no! 1 can't tell whar he 
 lives, 
 Because he don't live, you see; 
 Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 
 Of iivin' like you and me, 
 Whar have you been for the last 
 three year 
 That you have'nt heard folks tell 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his 
 checks 
 The night of the Prairie Belle ? 
 
 He weren't no saint, — them engi- 
 neers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike, — 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 
 
 And another one here, in Pike; 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward hand in a row, 
 But he never flunked, and he never 
 lied, — 
 
 1 reckon he never knowed how. 
 
 And this was all the religion he 
 had, — 
 
 To treat his engine well; 
 Never be passed on the river 
 
 To mind the pilot's bell; 
 And if ever the Prairie Belle took 
 fire, — 
 
 A thousand times he swore. 
 He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 
 All boats has their d-ay on the Mis- 
 sissip. 
 And her day come at last. — 
 
 The Movastar was a better boat. 
 But the Belle she wouldn't be 
 passed. 
 And so she came tearin' along that 
 night — 
 The oldest craft on the line — 
 With a nigger squat on her safety- 
 valve. 
 And her furnace crammed, rosin 
 and i)ine. 
 
 The fire burst out as she dared tlie 
 bar. 
 And burnt a hole in the night. 
 And quiclv as a flash she turned, and 
 made 
 For that wilier-bank on the right. 
 There was runnin' and cursin', but 
 Jim yelled out. 
 Over all tlie infernal roar, 
 "I'll hold her nozzle agin the liank 
 Till the last galoot's ashore." 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the 
 burnin' boat 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard. 
 And they all had trust in his cussed- 
 ness, 
 And knowed he would keep his 
 word. 
 And sure's you're born, they all got 
 off 
 Afore the smokestacks fell, — 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 He weren't no saint, — but at jedg- 
 ment 
 I'd run my chance with Jim, 
 'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 That wouldn't shook hands with 
 him. 
 He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, — 
 
 And went for it thar and then; 
 And Christ ain't a going to be too 
 hard 
 On a man that died for men. 
 
Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 A FAMILIAR LETTER TO SEVERAL 
 CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 Yes, ■H'l'ite, if you want to, there's 
 iiothinc; like trying; 
 Who knows what a treasure your 
 casket may hold ? 
 I'll show you that rhyniing's as easy 
 as lying 
 If you'li listen to nie while the art 
 I unfold. 
 
 Here's a book full of words: one can 
 choose as he fancies, 
 As a painter his tint, as a workman 
 his tool ; 
 Just think! all the poems and plays 
 and romances 
 Were drawn out of this, like the 
 fish from a pool ! 
 
 You can wander at will through its 
 syllabled mazes. 
 And take all you want, — not a 
 copper they cost, — 
 What is there to hinder your picking 
 out phrases 
 For an epic as clever as " Paradise 
 Lost" ? 
 
 Don't mind if the index of sense is at 
 zero. 
 Use words that run smoothly, 
 whatever they mean ; 
 Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero 
 Are much the same thing in the 
 rhyming machine. 
 
 There are words so delicious their 
 sweetness will smother 
 That boarding-school flavor of which 
 we're afraid, — 
 There is '*lush" is a good one, and 
 " swirl " is another, — 
 Put both in one stanza, its fortune 
 is made. 
 
 With musical murmurs and rhythmi- 
 cal closes 
 You can cheat us of smiles when 
 you've nothing to tell; 
 
 You hand us a nosegay of milliner's 
 roses. 
 And we cry with delight, " O, how 
 sweet they do smell!" 
 
 Perhaps you will answer all needful 
 conditions 
 For winning the laurels to which 
 you aspire. 
 By docking the tails of the two prep- 
 ositions 
 I' the style o' the l)ards you so 
 greatly admire. 
 
 As for subjects of verse, they are 
 only too plenty 
 For ringing the changes on metri- 
 cal chimes: 
 A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of 
 twenty. 
 Have filled that great basket with 
 bushels of rhymes. 
 
 Let me show you a picture — 'tis fur 
 from irrelevant — 
 By a famous old hand in the arts 
 of design; 
 'Tis only a photographed sketch of 
 an elephant, — 
 The name of the draughtsman was 
 Rembrandt of Rhine. 
 
 How easy ! no troublesome colors to 
 lay on. 
 It can't have fatigued liini, — no, 
 not in the least, — 
 A dash here and there with a haj)- 
 hazard crayon, 
 And there stands the wrinkled- 
 skinned, baggy-limbed beast. 
 
 Just so with your verse, — 'tis as easy 
 as sketching, — 
 You can reel off a song without 
 knitting your brow, 
 As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing 
 or etching; 
 It is nothing at all, if you only 
 know how. 
 
HOLMES. 
 
 733 
 
 Well: imagine you've printed your 
 volume of verses ; 
 Yoiu- forehead is wreathed with 
 the garland of fame, 
 Your poem the eloquent school-boy 
 rehearses. 
 Her album the school-girl presents 
 for your name ; 
 
 Each morning the post brings you 
 autograph letters ; 
 You'll answer them promptly,— 
 an hour isn't nuich 
 For the honor of sharing a page with 
 your betters, 
 With magistrates, members of Con- 
 gress, and such. 
 
 Of course you're delighted to serve 
 the committees 
 That come with requests from the 
 country all round; 
 Y^ou would grace the occasion with 
 poems and ditties 
 When they've got a new school- 
 house, "or poorhouse or pound. 
 
 With a hymn for the saints and a 
 song for the sinners. 
 You go and are welcome wherever 
 you please ; 
 Y'ou're a privileged guest at all man- 
 ner of dinners. 
 You've a seat on the platform 
 among the grandees. 
 
 At length your mere presence be- 
 comes a sensation, 
 Your cup of enjoyment is filled to 
 its brim 
 With the pleasure Horatian of digit- 
 monstration, 
 As the whisper runs round of 
 " That's he ! " or " That's him !" 
 
 But remember, O dealer in phrases 
 sonorous, 
 So daintily chosen, so tunefully 
 matched, 
 Though you soar with the wings of 
 the cherubim o'er us. 
 The ovum was human from which 
 you were hatched. 
 
 No will of your own with its puny 
 compulsion 
 Can summon the spirit that quick- 
 ens the lyre; 
 It comes, if at all, like the sibyl's 
 convulsion 
 And touches the brain with a finger 
 of fire. 
 
 So perhaps, after all, it's as well to 
 be quiet. 
 If you've nothing you think is 
 worth saying in prose. 
 As to furnish a meal of their canni- 
 bal diet 
 To the critics, by publishing, as 
 you propose. 
 
 But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry 
 I've written, — 
 I shall see your thin volume some 
 day on my shelf ; 
 For the rhyming tarantula surely has 
 bitten. 
 And nuisic must cure you, so pipe 
 it yourself. 
 
 THE StiPTEMBER GALE. 
 
 I'm not a chicken: I have seen 
 
 Full many a chill September, 
 And though I was a youngster then. 
 
 That gale I well remember; 
 The day before my kite-string 
 snapped. 
 
 And I, my kite pursuing, 
 The wind whisked off my palm-leaf 
 hat, — 
 
 For me two storms were breMing! 
 
 It came as quarrels sometimes do, 
 
 When married folks get clashing; 
 There was a heavy sigh or two, 
 
 Before the fire was flashing, — 
 A little stir among the clouds. 
 
 Before they rent asunder, — 
 A little rocking of the trees, 
 
 And then came on the thunder. 
 
 Lord: how the ponds and rivers 
 boiled I 
 
 They seemed like bursting craters! 
 And oaks lay scattered on the ground 
 
 As if they wore p'taters; 
 
734 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 And all above was in a howl, 
 And all below a clatter, — 
 
 The earth was like a frying-pan, 
 Or some such hissing matter. 
 
 It chanced to be our washing-day, 
 
 And all our things were drying; 
 The storm came roaring through the 
 lines. 
 
 And set them all a flying; 
 I saw the shirts and petticoats 
 
 Go riding oi¥ like witches: 
 I lost, ah! bitterly I wept, — 
 
 I lost my Sunday breeches ! 
 
 I saw them straddling through the air, 
 
 Alas ! too late to win them ; 
 I saw them chase the clouds, as if 
 
 The devil had been in them ; 
 They were my darlings and my pride, 
 
 My boyhood's only riches, — 
 "Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried: 
 
 " My breeches' O my breeches!" 
 
 That night I saw them in my dreams, 
 How changed from what I knew 
 them ! 
 The dews had steeped their faded 
 threads. 
 The winds had whistled through 
 them ! 
 I saw the wide and ghastly rents 
 AVhere demon claws liad torn 
 them ; 
 A hole was in their amplest part, 
 As if an imp had worn them. 
 
 I have had many happy years, 
 
 And tailors kind anil clever. 
 But those young pantaloons have 
 gone 
 
 Forever and forever! 
 And not till fate has cut the last 
 
 Of all my earthly stitches. 
 This aching heart shall cease to 
 mourn 
 
 My loveil, my long-lost breeches ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 TO MY IXFAAT SOX. 
 
 Tiiou happy, happy elf ! 
 (But stop; first let me kiss away that 
 
 tear. ) 
 Thou tiny image of myself! 
 (My love, he's poking peas into his 
 
 ear, ) 
 Thou merry, laughing sprite, 
 With spirits, feather light, 
 Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled 
 
 by sin. 
 (My dear, the child is swallowing a 
 
 pin!) 
 
 Tliou little tricksy Puck! 
 
 "Willi antic toys so funnily bestuck. 
 
 Light as the singing bird that wings 
 
 the air, — 
 (The door! the door! he'll tumble 
 
 down the stair!) 
 Thou darling of thy sire! 
 (Why. .lane, he'll set his pinafore 
 
 atire!) 
 Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
 
 In love's dear chain so bright a link. 
 Thou idol of thy parents; — (Drat 
 the boy I 
 There goes my ink. ) 
 
 Thou cherub, but of earth; 
 
 Fit playfellow for fairies, by moon- 
 light pale. 
 In harmless sport and mirth, 
 
 (That dog will bite him, if he piUls 
 his tail!) 
 Thou human humming-bee, ex- 
 tracting honey 
 
 From every blossom in the world that 
 blows. 
 Singing in youth's Elysium ever 
 sunny, — 
 
 ( Another tumble ! That's his precious 
 nose!) 
 
 Thy father's pride and hope! 
 
 (He'll break the mirror with that 
 skipping-rope!) 
 
 With pure heart newly stamped from 
 Natiu'e's mint, 
 
 (Where did he learn that squint ?) 
 
HOOD. 
 
 Thou young domestic dove! 
 
 (He'll have'that ring off with another 
 
 shove, ) 
 Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! 
 (Are these torn clothes his best ?) 
 Little epitome of man! 
 (He'll climb upon the table, that's his 
 
 plan.) 
 Touched with the beauteous tints of 
 
 dawning life, 
 (He's got a knife!) 
 Thou enviable being! 
 No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky 
 
 foreseeing, 
 Play on, play on, 
 My el tin John! 
 Toss the light ball, bestride the 
 
 stick, — 
 (I knew so many cakes would make 
 
 iiim sick!) 
 With fancies buoyant as the thistle- 
 down, 
 Prompting the feat grotesque, and 
 
 antic brisk. 
 With many a lamb-like frisk! 
 (He's got the scissors, snipping at 
 
 your gown ! ) 
 Thou pretty opening rose! 
 (Go to your mother, child, and wipe 
 
 your nose!) 
 Balmy and breathing music like the 
 
 south, 
 (He really brings my heart into my 
 
 mouth!) [dove; 
 
 Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the 
 ( I'll tell you what, my love, 
 I cannot write unless he's sent above. ) 
 
 JOHN DAY. 
 
 Jonx Day he was the biggest man 
 Of all the coachman kind. 
 
 With back too bi'oad to be conceived 
 By any narrow mind. 
 
 The very horses knew his weight 
 
 When he was in the rear. 
 And wished his box a Christmas-box 
 
 To come but once a year. 
 
 Alas! against the shafts of love 
 
 What armor can avail ? 
 Soon Cupid sent an arrow through 
 
 His scarlet coat of mail. 
 
 The bar-maid of the Crown he loved, 
 From whom he never ranged ; 
 
 For though he changed his liorses 
 there. 
 His love he never changed. 
 
 He thought her fairest of all fares. 
 
 So fontUy love prefers; 
 And often, among twelve outsides. 
 
 Deemed no outside like hers. 
 
 One day, as she was sitting down 
 
 Beside the porter-pump. 
 He came, and knelt witli all his fat. 
 
 And made an offer plump. 
 
 Said she, " My taste will never learn 
 
 To like so huge a man. 
 So I must beg you will come here 
 
 As little as you can." 
 
 But still he stoutly in-ged his suit. 
 With vows, and sighs, and tears. 
 
 It could not pierce her heart, al- 
 though 
 He drove the " Dart" for years. 
 
 In vain he wooed, in vain lie sued; 
 
 The maid was cold and proud, 
 And sent him off to Coventry, 
 
 While on his way to Stroud. 
 
 He fretted all the way to Stroud, 
 And thence all back to town; 
 
 The course of love was never smooth, 
 So his went up and down. 
 
 At last her coldness made him pine 
 To merely bones and skin. 
 
 But still he loved like one resolve 1 
 To love through thick and thin. 
 
 " O Mary! view my wasted back. 
 And see my dwindled calf; 
 
 Though I have never had a wife. 
 I've lost my better half." 
 
 Alas! in vain he still assailed. 
 Her heart withstood the dint; 
 
 Though he had carried sixteen stone, 
 He could not move a flint. 
 
 Worn out, at last he made a vow 
 To l)reak his being's link: 
 
 For he was so reduced in size 
 At nothhig he could shrink. • 
 
HOOD. 
 
 Now some will talk in waters praise, 
 And waste a deal of breath, 
 
 Ikit John, though he drank nothing 
 else, 
 He drank himself to death. 
 
 The cruel maid that caused his love, 
 
 P^ound out the fatal close. 
 For looking in the butt, she saw 
 
 The butt-end of his woes. 
 
 Some say his spirit haunts the Crown, 
 
 But that is only talk — 
 For after riding all his life. 
 
 His ghost objects to walk. 
 
 NUMBER ONE. 
 
 It's very hard ! — and so it is, 
 
 To live in such a row, — 
 
 And witness this, that every Miss 
 
 But me has got a beau. 
 
 For Love goes calling up and down. 
 
 But here he seems to shun ; 
 
 I am sure he has been asked enough 
 
 To call at Number One! 
 
 I'm sick of all the double knocks 
 
 That come to Number Four! 
 
 At Number Three I often see 
 
 A lover at the door; 
 
 And one in blue, at Number Two, 
 
 Calls daily, like a dun. — 
 
 It's very hard they come so near, 
 
 And not to Number One ! 
 
 ^liss Bell, I hear, has got a dear 
 
 Exactly to her mind, — 
 
 P.y sitting at the window-pano 
 
 Without a bit of blind; 
 
 But I go in the balcony, 
 
 Which she has never done; 
 
 Yet arts that thrive at Number Five 
 
 Don't take at Number One. 
 
 "Tis hard, with plenty in the street. 
 
 And plenty passing by, — 
 
 'J'here's nice young men at Number 
 
 Ten, 
 But only rather shy; 
 And Mrs. Smith across the way 
 Has got a grown-up son. 
 But, la! he hardly seems to know 
 There is a Number One! 
 
 There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, 
 
 But he's intent on pelf; 
 
 And though he's pious, will not love 
 
 His neighbor as himself. 
 
 At Number Seven there was a sale — 
 
 The goods had quite a run! 
 
 And here I've got my single lot 
 
 On hand at Number One ! 
 
 My mother often sits at work. 
 
 And talks of props and stays. 
 
 And what a comfort 1 shall be 
 
 In her declining days: 
 
 The very maids about the house 
 
 Have set me down a nun. 
 
 The sweethearts all belong to them 
 
 That call at Number One! 
 
 Once only, when the fine took fire, 
 
 One Friday afternoon, 
 
 Young Mr. Long came kindly in 
 
 And told me not to swoon : 
 
 Why can't he come again, without 
 
 The Pha='nix and the Sun ? 
 
 We cannot always have a flue 
 
 On fire at Number One ! 
 
 I am not old : I am not plain ; 
 Nor awkwai'd in my gait — 
 I am not crooked like the bride 
 That went from Number Eight: 
 I'm sure white satin made her look 
 As brown as any bun — 
 But even beauty has no chance, 
 I think, at Number One ! 
 
 At Number Six they say Miss Rose 
 
 Has slain a score of hearts. 
 
 And Cupid, for her sake, has been 
 
 CJuite prodigal of darts. 
 
 The Imp they show with bended 
 
 bow, 
 I wish he had a gun! 
 But if he had he'd never deign 
 To shoot with Number One! 
 
 It's very hard, and so it is, 
 
 To live in such a row! 
 
 And here's a ballad-singer come 
 
 To aggravate my woe : 
 
 Oh. take away your foolish song. 
 
 And tones enough to stun — 
 
 There is "Naeluck about the house," 
 
 I know, at Number One! 
 
I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 
 
 Well, I confess, 1 dkl not guess 
 
 A simple maii'iage vow 
 Would make me find all women-kind 
 
 kSucIi unkind women now! 
 They need not, sure, as dlslunt be 
 
 As Java or Japan, — 
 Yet every Miss reminds me this — 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 Once they made choice of my bass 
 voice 
 
 To share in each duet; 
 So well 1 danced, 1 somehow chanced 
 
 To stand in every set: 
 They now declare I cannot sing, 
 
 And dance on Bruin's plan; 
 Me draw ! — me paint ! — me any- 
 thing!— 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 Once I was asked advice, and tasked 
 
 What works to buy or not, 
 And '* would I read that passage out 
 
 I so admired in Scott ? '' 
 They then could bear to hear one read ; 
 
 But if I now began. 
 How they would snub, "My pretty 
 page," — 
 
 Tm not a single man ! 
 
 One used to stitch a collar then, 
 
 Another hemmed a frill; 
 I had more pm-ses netted then 
 
 Than I could hope to fill. 
 I once could get a button on, 
 
 But now I never can — 
 My buttons then were Bachelor's — 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 Oh, how they hated politics 
 
 Thrust on me by papa: 
 But now my chat — they all leave that 
 
 To entertain mamma: 
 Mamma, who praises her own self, 
 
 Instead of Jane or Ann, 
 And lays " her girls" upon the shelf — 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 Ah me, how strange it is, the change, 
 
 In parlor and in hall, 
 They treat me so. if I but go 
 
 To make a morning call. 
 
 If they had hair in papers once. 
 Bolt up the stairs they ran; 
 
 They now sit still in dishabille — 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 Miss Mary Bond was once so fond 
 
 Of Romans and of Greeks; 
 She daily sought my cabinet 
 
 To study my antiques. 
 Well, now she doesn't care a dump 
 
 For ancient pot or ]ian, 
 Her taste at once is modernized — 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 My spouse is fond of homely life. 
 
 And all that sort of thing; 
 I go to balls without my wife. 
 
 And never wear a ring: 
 And yet each Miss to whom I come. 
 
 As strange as Genghis Khan, 
 Knows by some sign I can't divine — 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 Go where I will, I but intrude, 
 
 I'm left in crowded rooms. 
 Like Zimmerman on Solitude, 
 
 Or Hervey at his Tombs. 
 From head to heel they make me feel 
 
 Of quite another clan : 
 Compelled to own, thougli left alone, 
 
 I'm not a single man ! 
 
 Miss Towne the toast, though she can 
 boast 
 
 A nose of Roman line, 
 Will turn up even that in scorn 
 
 At compliments of mine: 
 She should have seen that I have been 
 
 Her sex's partisan, 
 And really married all I could — 
 
 I'm not a single man ! 
 
 'Tis hard to see how others fare, 
 
 Whilst I rejected stand, — 
 Will no one take my arm because 
 
 They cannot have my hand ? 
 Miss Parry, that for some would go 
 
 A flip to Hindostan, 
 With me don't care to mount a stair — 
 
 I'm not a single man ! 
 
 Some change, of course, should be in 
 force, 
 But, surely, not so much — 
 
738 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 There may be hands I may not 
 squeeze, 
 
 But must I never touch ? 
 Must I forbear to hand a chah- 
 
 And not pick up a fan ? 
 But I have been myself picked up — 
 
 I'm not a single man ! 
 
 Others may hint a lady's tint 
 
 Is purest red and white, — 
 May say her eyes are like the skies. 
 
 So very blue and bright — 
 I must not say that she has eyes, 
 
 Or if I so began, 
 1 have my fears about my ears — 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 I must confess I did not guess 
 
 A simple marriage vow. 
 Would make me find all women-kind 
 
 Such unkind women now; 
 I might be hashed to death, or 
 smashed. 
 
 By Mr. Pickford's van, 
 Without, I fear, a single tear — 
 
 I'm not a single man! 
 
 THE DOUBLE KNOCK. 
 
 Eat-tat it went upon the lion's 
 
 chin ; 
 "That hat, I know it!'' cried the 
 
 joyful girl; 
 " Summer's it is, I know bin) by his 
 
 knock ; 
 Comers like him are welcome as the 
 
 day! 
 Lizzie ! go down and open the street 
 
 door; 
 Busy I am to any one but him. 
 Know liim you must — he has been 
 
 often here; 
 Show him upstairs, and tell lum I'm 
 
 alone." 
 
 Quickly the maid went tripping down 
 
 the stair; 
 Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda 
 
 beat ; 
 "Sure he has brought me tickets for 
 
 the play — 
 Drury — or Covent Garden — darling 
 
 man! 
 
 Kemble will play — or Kean. who 
 
 makes the soul 
 Tremble in Richard or llie frenzied 
 
 Moor — 
 Farren, the stay and prop of many a 
 
 farce 
 Barren beside — or Liston, Laugh- 
 ter's child — 
 Kelly, the natural, to witness whom 
 Jelly is nothing to the public's jam — 
 ('ooper, the sensible — and Walter 
 
 Knowles 
 Super, in William Tell, now rightly 
 
 told. 
 Better — perchance, from Andrews, 
 
 brings a box, 
 Letter of boxes for the Italian stage — 
 Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul! 
 No card — thank Heaven — engages 
 
 me to-night! 
 Feathers, of course — no turban and 
 
 no toque — 
 Weather's against it, but I'll go in 
 
 curls. 
 Dearly I dote on white — my satin 
 
 dress. 
 Merely one night — it won't be much 
 
 the worse — 
 Cupid — the new ballet I long to 
 
 see — 
 Stupid! why don't she go and ope the 
 
 door? ' ' 
 
 Glistened her eye as tlie impatient 
 girl 
 
 Listened, low bending o'er the top- 
 most stair. 
 
 Vainly, alas ! she listens and she 
 bends. 
 
 Plainly she hears this question and 
 reply : 
 
 "Axes your pardon, sir, but what 
 d'ye waiit ? " 
 
 " Taxes," says he, " and shall not 
 call again! " 
 
 THE CIGAR. 
 
 Some sigh for this and that, 
 My wishes don't go far. 
 
 The world may wag at will, 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
HOOD. 
 
 739 
 
 Some fret themselves to death, 
 With AVhig and Tory jar; 
 
 I don't care which Is in, 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 Sir John requests my vote. 
 And so does Mr. Marr; 
 
 I don't care how it goes, 
 So I liave my cigar. 
 
 Some want a German row. 
 Some wish a Russian war. 
 
 I care not — I'm at peace — 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 I never see the Post, 
 I seldom read the Star, 
 
 The Globe I scarcely heed, 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 They tell me that bank stock 
 Is sunk much under par, 
 
 It's all the same to me. 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 Honors have come to men, 
 My juniors at the bar. 
 
 No matter — I can wait, 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 Ambition frets me not; 
 
 A cab, or glory's car 
 Are just the same to me, 
 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 I worship no vain gods, 
 
 But serve the household Lar : 
 
 I'm sure to be at home. 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 I do not seek for fame, 
 A general with a scar; 
 
 A private let me be, 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 To have my choice among 
 The toys of life's bazaar. 
 
 The deuce may take them all. 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 Some minds are often tost 
 By tempests, like a Tar; 
 
 1 always seem in port, 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 The ardent flame of love. 
 My bosom cannot char; 
 
 I smoke, but do not burn, 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 They tell me Nancy Low 
 Has mari-ied Mr. li : 
 
 The jilt ! but I can live. 
 So I have my cigar. 
 
 FAITHLESS XELLY GRAY. 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold. 
 And used to war's alarms: 
 
 But a cannon-ball took otf his legs, 
 So he laid down his arms I 
 
 Now, as they bore him off the field, 
 Said he. " Let others shoot, 
 
 For here I leave my second leg. 
 And the Forty-second P'oot ! " 
 
 The army surgeons made him limbs: 
 Said he, " They're only pegs; 
 
 But there 's as wooden members 
 quite. 
 As represent my legs! " 
 
 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid. 
 Her name was Nelly Gray; 
 
 So he went to pay her his devours 
 When he'd devoured his pay! 
 
 But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
 She made him quite a scoff; 
 
 And when she saw his wooden legs, 
 Began to take them off ! 
 
 " O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! 
 
 Is this your love so warm ? 
 The love that loves a scarlet coat. 
 
 Should be more uniform! '" 
 
 Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
 For he was blithe and brave; 
 
 But I will never have a man 
 With both legs in the grave ! 
 
 " Before you had those timber toes, 
 
 Your love I did allow. 
 But then, you knoM', you stand upon 
 
 Another footing now! " 
 
740 
 
 HOOD. 
 
 " O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! 
 
 For all your jeering speeches, 
 At duty's call I left my legs 
 
 In Badajos's breacliea ! ^^ 
 
 " Why, then," said she, "'you've lost 
 the feet 
 
 Of legs in war's alarms, 
 And now you cannot wear yoiu* shoes 
 
 Upon your feats of arms!" 
 
 " Oh, false and fickle Nelly Gray; 
 
 I know why you refuse: [man 
 
 Though I've no feet — some other 
 
 Is standing in my shoes! 
 
 " I wish I ne'er had seen your face; 
 
 But, now. a long farewell ! 
 For you will be my death; — alas! 
 
 You will not be my Nell .' "' 
 
 Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, 
 
 His heart so heavy got — 
 And life was such a burthen grown. 
 
 It made him take a knot ! 
 
 So round his melancholy neck 
 
 A rope he did entwine. 
 And, for his second time in life. 
 
 Enlisted in the Line! 
 
 One end he tied around a beam, 
 And then removed his pegs, 
 
 And, as his legs were otf, — of course. 
 He soon was off his legs ! 
 
 And there he hung till he was dead 
 
 As any nail in town, — 
 For though distress had cut him up, 
 
 It eoidd not cut him down! 
 
 A dozen men sat on his corpse. 
 To find out why he died — 
 
 And they buried Ben in four cross- 
 roads. 
 With a atake in his inside! 
 
 FAITHLESS SALLY BROlfX. 
 
 Young Ben he was a nice young 
 man, 
 
 A carpenter hy trade. 
 And he fell in love with Sally Brown, 
 
 That was a lady's maid. 
 
 But as they fetched a walk one day, 
 They met a press-gang crew ; 
 
 And Sally she did faint away, 
 AVhilst Ben he was brought to. 
 
 The boatswain swore with wicked 
 words. 
 
 Enough to shock a saint. 
 That though she did seem in a fit, 
 
 'Twas nothing but a feint. 
 
 " Come, girl," said he, "hold up your 
 head. 
 
 He'll be as good as me; 
 For when your swain is in our boat, 
 
 A boatswain he will be." 
 
 So when they'd made their game of 
 her, 
 
 And taken off her elf. 
 She roused, and found she only was 
 
 A coming to herself. 
 
 " And is he gone, and is he gone?" 
 She cried, and wept outright : 
 
 " Then I will to the water side. 
 And see him out of sight." 
 
 A waterman came up to her: 
 "Now. young woman." said he, 
 
 '■ If you weep on so. you will make 
 Eye-water in the sea." 
 
 " Alas! they've taken my beau Ben 
 To sail with old Benbow; " 
 
 And her woe began to run afresh. 
 As if she'd saitl Gee woe! 
 
 Says he, '' They've only taken him 
 To the Tender ship, you see;" 
 
 " The Tender ship," cried Sally 
 Brown, 
 What a hard-ship that must be! 
 
 "Oh ! would I were a mermaid 
 now. 
 
 For then I'd follow him; 
 But, oh! — I'm not a fisb-woman. 
 
 And so I cannot swim. 
 
 '•Alas! I was not born beneath 
 The Virgin and the Scales, 
 
 So I must curse my cruel stars, 
 And walk about in Wales." 
 
Now Ben had sailed to many a 
 place 
 That's miderneath the world; 
 IJut in two years the ship came 
 liome, 
 And all her sails were fm'led. 
 
 But when he called on Sally Brown, 
 
 To see how she went on, 
 He found she'd got another Ben, 
 
 Whose Christian name was John. 
 
 " O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown, 
 How could you serve me so ? 
 
 I've met with many a breeze before. 
 But never such a blow.'' 
 
 Then reading on his 'bacco-box, 
 
 He heaved a bitter sigh, 
 And then began to eye his pipe, 
 
 And then to pipe his eye. 
 
 And then he tried to sing, '• \.ll 's 
 Well." 
 But could not, though he tried; 
 His head was turned, and so he 
 chewed 
 His pigtail till he died. 
 
 [berth, 
 His death, which happened in his 
 
 At forty-odd befell : 
 They went and told the sexton, and 
 The sexton tolled the bell. 
 
 THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 
 
 How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose, their books, 
 Are snai-ed by anglers,— folks that fish with literary Hooks, — 
 Who call an(i take some favorite tome, but never read it through; — 
 They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you. 
 
 I, of my " Spenser " quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken; 
 Of " Lamb " I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my '* Bacon;" 
 And then I saw my " Crabbe," at last, like Hamlet, backward go; 
 And, as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my " Rowe." 
 
 My '• Mallet " served to knock me down, which makes me thus a talker; 
 And once, when I was out of town, my " Johnson " proved a " Walker." 
 While studying, o'er the fire, one day, my '• Hobbes," amidst the smoke, 
 They bore my " Colman " clean away, and carried off my " Coke." 
 
 They picked my " Locke," to me far more than Braraah's patent worth. 
 
 And now my losses I deplore, without a " Home " on earth. 
 
 If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal. 
 
 For though 1 caught them stealing " Swift," as swiftly went my " Steele." 
 
 " Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated; 
 But what is strange my "Pope" himself is excommunicated. 
 My little " Suckling " in the grave is simk to swell the ravage; 
 And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose, — a "' Savage." 
 
 Even " Glover's " works I cannot put my frozen hands upon ; 
 Though ever since I lost my " Foote," my " Bunyan " has been gone. 
 My " Hoyle " with " Cotton " went oppressed ; my " Taylor." too, must fail; 
 To save my " Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered " Bayle." 
 
 I " Prior" sought, but could not see the " Hood" so late in front; 
 
 And when I turned to hunt for " Lee," oh! where was my " Leigh Hunt" ? 
 
 I tried to laugh, old cai-e to tickle, yet could not " Tickle "' touch ? 
 
 And then, alack! I missed my " Mickle," — and surely Mickle 's nuich. 
 
742 
 
 HOPKINSON. 
 
 'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse. 
 
 To think 1 cannot read my " Reid," nor even use my " Hughes; " 
 
 My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hojied; 
 
 Like Dr. Primrose, 1 may cry, my " Livy " has eloped. 
 
 My life is ebbing fast away ; 1 suffer from these shocks, 
 And though 1 fixed a lock on " Gray," there's gray upon my locks; 
 I'm far from " Young," am growing pale, I see my '* Butler" fly; 
 And when they ask about my ail, 'tis " Burton," 1 reply. 
 
 They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide; 
 For, oh! they cured me of my " Burns," and eased my " Akenside." 
 But all I think 1 shall not say, nor let my anger burn. 
 For, as they never found me " Gay," tliey have not left me " Sterne.' 
 
 Francis Hopkinson. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS. 
 
 Gallants, attend and hear a friend 
 Trill forth harmonious ditty ; 
 
 Strange things I'll tell which late be- 
 fell 
 In Philadelphia city. 
 
 'Twas early day, as poets say, 
 Just when the sun was rising, 
 
 A soldier stood on a log of wood, 
 And saw a thing suri^rising. 
 
 As in amaze he stood to gaze, 
 The truth can't be denied, sir, 
 
 He spied a score of kegs or more 
 Come floating down the tide, sir. 
 
 A sailor too, in jerkin blue. 
 This strange appearance viewing. 
 
 First rubbed his eyes, in great sur- 
 prise, 
 Then said some mischief 's brewing. 
 
 These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold 
 Packed up like pickled herring; 
 
 And they're come down t' attack the 
 town. 
 In this new way of ferrying. 
 
 The soldier flew, the sailor too. 
 And scared almost to death, sir, 
 
 Wore out their shoes, to spread the 
 news. 
 And ran till out of breath, sir. 
 
 Now up and down throughout the 
 town 
 
 Most frantic scenes were acted ; 
 And some ran here, and others there, 
 
 Like men almost distracted. 
 
 Some fire cried, which some denied, 
 But said the earth had quaked; 
 
 And girls and boys, with hideous 
 noise. 
 Ran through the streets half naked. 
 
 From sleep Sir William starts upright. 
 Awaked by such a clatter; 
 
 He rubs both eyes, and boldly cries. 
 For God's sake, what's the matter ? 
 
 At his bedside he then espied 
 Sir Erskine at command, sir; 
 
 Upon one foot lie had one boot. 
 And til' other in his hand, sir. 
 
 " Arise, arise! " Sir Erskine cries; 
 
 '■ The rebels — more 's the pity — 
 Without a boat are all afloat. 
 
 And ranged before the city. 
 
 "The motley crew, in vessels new, 
 ^Vith Satan for their guiile, sir, 
 
 Packed up in bags, or wooden kegs. 
 Come driving down the tide, sir. 
 
 " Therefore prepare for bloody war; 
 
 These kegs must all be routed. 
 Or surely we despised shall be. 
 
 And British courage doubted." 
 
LANDOE. 
 
 743 
 
 The royal band now ready stand, 
 All ranged in dread array, sir, 
 
 With stomach stout, to see it out. 
 And make a bloody day, sir. 
 
 The cannons roar, from shore to 
 shore. 
 
 The small arms make a rattle ; 
 Since wars began I'm sure no man 
 
 E'er saw so strange a battle. 
 
 The rebel dales, the rebel vales, 
 With rebel trees surrounded ; 
 
 The distant woods, the hills 
 floods. 
 With rebel echoes sounded. 
 
 and 
 
 The fish below, swam to and fro, 
 Attacked from every quarter; 
 
 Why, sure, thought they, the devil's 
 to pay 
 'Mongst folks above the water. 
 
 The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly 
 made 
 
 Of rebel staves and hoops, sir. 
 Could not opi30se their powerful foes. 
 
 The conq'ring British troops, sir. 
 
 From morn to night these men of 
 might 
 
 Displayed amazing courage; 
 And when the sun was fairly down 
 
 Retired to sup their porridge. 
 
 An hundred men, with each a pen, 
 Or more, upon my word, sir. 
 
 It is most true would be too few 
 Their valor to record, sir. 
 
 Such feats did they perform that day 
 Against these wicked kegs, sir. 
 
 That years to come, if they get home. 
 They'll make their boast and brags, 
 
 Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 THE ONE WHITE HAIR. 
 
 The wisest of the wise 
 Listen to pretty lies 
 
 And love to hear them told; 
 Doubt not that Solomon 
 Listened to many a one, — 
 Some in his youth, and more when 
 
 he grew old. 
 
 I never was among 
 
 The choir of Wisdom's song. 
 
 But pretty lies loved I, 
 As much as any king. 
 When youth was on the wing, 
 And (must it then be told '?) when 
 
 youth had quite gone by. 
 
 Alas ! and I have not 
 The pleasant hour forgot 
 
 When one pert lady said 
 " O Landor I I am quite 
 Bewildered with affright ! 
 I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on 
 
 your head I " 
 
 Another more benign 
 Di'ew out that hair of mine, 
 And in her own dark hair 
 Pretended it was found. 
 That one, and twirled it round ; 
 Fair as slie was she never was so fair! 
 
 UNDER THE LINDENS. 
 
 Under the lindens lately sat 
 A couple, and no more, in chat; 
 I wondereil what they would be at 
 
 Under the lindens. 
 
 I saw four eyes and four lips meet; 
 I heard the words, "How sweet! 
 
 how sweet!" 
 Had then the fairies given a treat 
 
 Under the lindens ? 
 
 I pondered long, and could not tell 
 What dainty pleased them both so 
 
 well : 
 Bees! oees! was it your hydromel 
 
 Under the lindens ? 
 
LELAND. 
 
 Charles Godfrey Leland. 
 
 [From Brcitmann about Town.] 
 CI TV EXPERIENCES. 
 
 Dey vented to de Opera Hans, 
 
 Und d(M-e dey vound em blayin'. 
 Of Ott'enbach (der o/xh brook), 
 
 His show spiel Belle llelene. 
 "Dere's Often bach, — Sebastian Bach ; 
 
 Mit Kanlbacli, — dat makes dree: 
 I alvays likes soosh brooks ash dese," 
 
 iSaid Breitemann, said he. 
 
 Dey vented to de Bibliothek, 
 
 Vhich Mishder Astor hilt: 
 Some |)ooks vere only en broschnre, 
 
 Und some vere pound unil gilt. 
 " Dat makes de gold — dat makes de 
 Sinn, 
 
 Mit pooks, ash men, ve see, 
 De pest tressed vellers gilt de most: " 
 
 Said Breitemann, said he. 
 
 Dey vent oonto a bictnre sale. 
 
 Of frames wort' many a cent, 
 De broberty of a shendleman. 
 
 Who oonto Europe vent. 
 "Don't gry — he'll soon pe pack 
 again 
 
 Mit anoder gallerie : 
 He sells dem oud dwelf dimes a 
 year," 
 
 Said Breitemann, said he. 
 
 Dey vented to dis berson's house. 
 
 To see his furnidure, 
 Sold oud at aucdion rite afay, 
 
 Berembdory und sure. 
 " He geeps six houses all at vonce, 
 
 Each veek a sale dere pe ; 
 Gotts! vat a dime liis vife moost 
 hafe!" — 
 
 Said Breitemann, said lie. 
 
 Dey vent to hear a breecher of 
 
 De last sensadion slityle, 
 'Twas 'nougli to make der tyfel weep 
 
 To see his " awful slnnile." 
 
 " Yot bities dat der Fechter ne'er 
 
 Vas in Tlieologie. 
 Dey'd make him liishop in dis 
 shoorsli," 
 
 Said Breitemann, said he. 
 
 Dey vent polid'gal meedins next, 
 
 Dey hear dem rant and I'ail, 
 Der bresident vas a forger, 
 
 Shoost bardoned oud of jail. 
 He does it oud of cratitood 
 
 'I'o dem who set him vree: 
 " Id's Harmonie of Inderesds," 
 
 Said Breitemann, said he. 
 
 Dey vent to a clairfoyand vitch, 
 
 A plack-eyed handsome maid, 
 She wahrsagt all der vortunes — denn 
 
 *' Fife dollars, gents! " she said. 
 " Dese vitches are nod of dis eart', 
 
 Und yed are on id, I see 
 Der Shakesbeare knew de preed right 
 veil," 
 
 Said Breitemann, said he. 
 
 Dey vented to a restaurand, 
 
 Der vaiter coot a dasli ; 
 He garfed a shicken in a vink, 
 
 Und serfed id at a vlash. 
 " Dat shap knows veil shoost how to 
 coot, 
 
 Und roon mit poulterie, 
 He vas copitain oonder Turchin 
 vonce," 
 
 Said Breitemann, said he. 
 
 Dey vented to de Voman's Righds, 
 
 Vere laties all agrees 
 De gals shoidd pe de voters, 
 
 Und deir beaux all de votees. 
 " For efery man dat nefer vorks. 
 
 Von frau should vranchised pe: 
 Dat ish de vay I solf dis ding," 
 
 Said Breitemann, said he. 
 
LEVER. 
 
 745 
 
 . SCHNirZEliUS PHILOSOPEDE. 
 
 Heijk Schnitzekl make a philoso- 
 l^ede, 
 
 Von of de pullyest kind ; 
 It vent mitout a vheel in front, 
 
 And hadn't none peliind. 
 Von vheel vas in de niiltel, dough, 
 
 Anil it vent as sure as ecks, 
 For he shtraddled on de axle-dree 
 
 Mit de vheel petween his leeks. 
 
 Und ven he vant to shtart id off. 
 
 He paddlet mit his feet, 
 Und soon he cot to go so vast 
 
 Dat avery dings he peat. 
 He run her out on Broader Slitreed, 
 
 He shkeeted like der vind; 
 Hei ! how he bassed de vancy crabs. 
 
 And lef dem all pehind ! 
 
 De vellers mit de trottin nags 
 
 Pooled oop to see him bass; 
 De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt: 
 
 "Potztnuseml ! Was ist das ? " 
 Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl 
 flewed 
 
 On — mit a gashtly smile; 
 He tidn't tooch de tirt, py shings! 
 
 Not vonce iu half a mile. 
 
 Oh, vot ish all dis eartly pliss ? 
 
 Oh, vot ish man's soocksess ? 
 Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings? 
 
 Und vot isli hobbiness ? 
 Ve find a pank-node in de shtreedt. 
 
 Next dings der pank is preak; 
 Ve foils, und knocks our outsides in, 
 
 Ven ve a ten-shtrike make. 
 
 So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein 
 
 On his philosopede ; 
 His feet both shlipped outsideward 
 shoost 
 
 Vhen at his extra shpeed. 
 He felled oopon der vheel, of course; 
 
 De vheel like blitzen flew: 
 Und Schnitzerl he vas sclmitz in 
 vact, 
 
 For id shlished him grod in two. 
 
 Und as for his philosopede, 
 
 Id cot so shkared, men say, 
 It pounded onward till it vent 
 
 Ganz teufelwards afay. 
 Bi;t vhere ish now de Schnitzerl's 
 soul ? 
 
 Vhere dos his slibirit pide ? 
 In Ilimmel troo de entless plue, 
 
 Id dakes a medeor ride. 
 
 Charles Lever. 
 
 WIDOW M ALONE. 
 
 Did you hear of the Widow Malone, 
 
 Oh one ! 
 Who lived in the town of Athlone, 
 Alone ! 
 O, she melted the hearts 
 Of the swains in them parts; 
 So lovely the Widow Malone, 
 Ohone! 
 So lovely the Widow Malone. 
 
 Of lovers she had a full score. 
 Or more. 
 And fortunes they all had galoi'C, 
 In store; 
 From the minister down 
 To the clerk of the Crown 
 
 All were courting the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ohone! 
 All were courting the Widow Malone, 
 
 But so modest was Mistress Malone, 
 
 'Twas known 
 That no one could see her alone, 
 Ohone! 
 Let them ogle and sigh. 
 They could ne'er catch her eye, 
 So bashful the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ohone! 
 So bashful the Widow Malone. 
 
 Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare 
 (How quare! 
 
 It's little for blushing they care 
 
 Down there), 
 
74G 
 
 LOVER. 
 
 Put his arm round her waist, — 
 Gave ten kisses at laste, — 
 " O," says he, ''you're my Molly 
 Malone ! 
 
 My own ! 
 O," says he, "you're my Molly 
 Malone!" 
 
 And the widow they all thought so 
 shy, 
 
 My eye ! 
 Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — 
 For why ? 
 But, "Lucius," says she, 
 " Since you've now made so free, 
 
 You may marry your Mary Malone, 
 
 Ohone ! 
 You may marry your Mary Malone." 
 
 There's a moral contained in mysong, 
 
 Not wrong; 
 And one comfort, it's not very long, 
 But strong, — 
 If for widows you die, 
 Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; 
 For they're all like sweet Mistress 
 Malone, 
 
 Ohone! 
 For they're all like sweet Mistress 
 Malone. 
 
 Samuel Lover. 
 
 THE Rlirni OF ST. PATRICK. 
 
 On the eighth day of March it was, 
 
 some people say. 
 That Saint Patrick at midnight he 
 
 first saw the day ; 
 While others declare 'twas the ninth 
 
 he was born. 
 And ' twas all a mistake between mid- 
 night and morn ; 
 For mistakes will occur in a hurry 
 
 and shock, 
 And some blamed the babby — and 
 
 some blamed the clock — 
 'Till with all their cross questions 
 
 sure no one could know 
 If the child was too fast — or the 
 
 clock was too slow. 
 
 Now the first faction fight in owld 
 
 Ireland, they say. 
 Was all on account of Saint Patrick's 
 
 birthday. 
 Some fought for the eighth — for the 
 
 ninth more woidd die. 
 And who wouldn't see right, sure 
 
 they blacken' d his eye. 
 At last, both the factions so positive 
 
 grew, 
 That eitrh kept a birth-day, so Pat 
 
 then had two. 
 
 'Till Father Mulcahy, who showed 
 them their sins. 
 
 Said. " No one could have two birth- 
 days, but a twins.'" 
 
 Says he, " Boys, don't be fighting for 
 eight or for nine. 
 
 Don't be always dividing — but some- 
 times combine ; 
 
 Combine eight with nine, and seven- 
 teen is the mark, 
 
 So let that be his birth-day" — 
 " Amen," says the clerk. 
 
 " If he wasn't a twins, sure our 
 hist'ry will show — 
 
 That, at least, he's worth any two 
 saints that we know!" 
 
 Then they all got blind drunk — which 
 completed their bliss. 
 
 And we keep up the practice from 
 that day to this. 
 
 JiOJiy O'MORE. 
 
 Young Rory O'More courted Kath- 
 leen Bawn, 
 
 He was bold as a hawk, and she soft 
 as the dawn; 
 
H'3 wished in his heart pretty Katli- 
 
 leen to please, 
 And lie thought the best way to do 
 
 tliat was to tease. 
 " Now, Kory, be easy," sweet Kath- 
 leen would cry, 
 Keproof on her lip, but a smile in her 
 
 eye, 
 " With your tricks, I don't know, in 
 
 throtli, what I'm about. 
 Faith, you've teased till I've put on 
 
 my cloak inside out." 
 "Oh! jewel," saysliory, "that same 
 
 is the way 
 You've tlu'ated my heart for this 
 
 many a day. 
 And it's piazed that I am, and why 
 
 not, to be sure ? 
 For it's all for good luck," says bold 
 
 Kory O'More. 
 
 "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, 
 
 " don't tliink of the like, 
 For I half gave a promise to tioother- 
 
 Iny Mike; 
 The ground that I walk on he loves, 
 
 I'll be bound:" 
 "Faith!" says Kory, "I'd rather 
 
 love you than the ground." 
 " Xow, Kory, I'll cry, if you don't 
 
 let me go: 
 Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm 
 
 hating you so!" 
 "Oh!" says Kory, "that same I'm 
 
 delighted to hear. 
 For dhnunes always go by conthrai- 
 
 rie.s, my dear. 
 Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same 
 
 till you die. 
 And bright morning will give dirty 
 
 night the black lie ! 
 And 'tis piazed that I am, and why 
 
 not, to be sure ? 
 Since 'tis all for good luck," says 
 
 bold Kory O'More. 
 
 " Arrah. Kathleen, my darlint, you've 
 
 teazed me enough. 
 Sure I've thrash' d for your sake Dinny 
 
 Grimes and Jim Duff; 
 And I've made myself, drinking your 
 
 health, quite a haste, 
 So I think, after that, I may talk to 
 
 the prante." 
 
 Then Kory, the rogue, stole his arm 
 
 round her neck. 
 So soft and so white, without freckle 
 
 or speck. 
 And he looked in her eyes that were 
 
 beaming with light. 
 And he kissed her sweet lips — don't 
 
 you think he was right '? 
 "Now, Kory, leave off, sir — you'll 
 
 hug me no more. 
 That's eight times to-day you have 
 
 kissed me before." 
 " Then here goes another," says he, 
 
 " to make sure. 
 For there's luck in odd numbers," 
 
 says Kory O'More. 
 
 WIDOW MACHREE. 
 
 Widow marln-ee, it's no wonder you 
 frown, 
 
 Och hone! widow machree; 
 Faith, it ruins yoiu- looks, that same 
 dirty black gown, 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 How altered your air, 
 Witli that close cap you wear — 
 'Tis destroying your hair 
 
 Which woidd be flowing free: 
 Be no longer a churl 
 Of its black silken curl, 
 
 Och hone! widow machree! 
 
 Widow machree, now the summer is 
 come, 
 
 Och hone! widow machree; 
 When everything smiles, should a 
 beauty look glinn ? 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 See the birds go in pairs. 
 And the rabbits and hares — 
 Why even the bears 
 
 Now in couples agree ; 
 And the mute little fish. 
 Though they can't spake, they wish, 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 
 Widow machree, and ^\hen winter 
 
 comes in, 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 To be poking the fire all alone is a 
 
 sin, 
 
Och hone ! widow macliree. 
 Sure tlie shovel and tongs 
 To each other belongs, 
 And the kettle sings songs 
 
 Full of family glee; 
 While alone with your cup, 
 Like a hermit you sup, 
 
 Och hone! widow machree. 
 
 And how do you know, with the 
 comforts I've towld, 
 Och hone ! widow machree, 
 But you're keeping some poor fellow 
 out in the cowld, 
 Och hone I widow machree. 
 With such sins on yoiu- head, 
 Sure your peace would be tied. 
 Could you sleep in your bed, 
 
 Without thinking to see 
 Some ghost or some sprite. 
 That would wake you each night, 
 Crying, "Och hone! widow ma- 
 chree." 
 
 Then take my advice, darling widow 
 machree, 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 And with my advice, faith I wish 
 you'd take me, 
 
 Och hone ! widow machree. 
 You'd have me to desire 
 Then to stir up the fire; 
 And sure Hope is no liar 
 
 In whispering to me. 
 That the ghosts M'ould depart, 
 When you'd me near your heart, 
 
 Och hone! widow macliree. 
 
 FATHER-LAND AND MOTHER- 
 TONG UE. 
 
 Our Father-land! and would' st thou 
 know 
 Why we should call it Father-land '? 
 It is. that Adam here below, 
 
 Was made of earth by Nature's 
 hand ; 
 And he, our father, made of earth. 
 
 Hath peopled earth on ev'ry hand. 
 And we, in memory of his birth. 
 Do call our country, " Father- 
 . laud." 
 
 At first, in Eden's bowers they say, 
 No sound of speech had Adam 
 caught. 
 But whistled like a bird all day — 
 And may be, 'twas for want of 
 thought : 
 But Nature, with resistless laws, 
 
 Made Adam soon siu'pass the birds. 
 She gave him lovely Eve — because 
 If he'd a wife — they must have 
 luord.s. 
 
 And so, the Native Land I hold. 
 
 By male descent is proudly mine ; 
 The Language, as the tale hath told, 
 
 W^as given in the female line. 
 And thus, we see, on either hand. 
 
 We name our blessings whence 
 they've sprung. 
 We call our country Father land, 
 
 We call oiu' language Mother 
 iouf/ne. 
 
 FATHER MOLLOY. 
 
 Paddy McCaije was dying one 
 
 day. 
 And Father Molloy he came to con- 
 fess him; 
 Paddy prayed liard he would make 
 
 no delay 
 But forgive him his sins and make 
 
 haste for to bless him. 
 "First tell me your sins," says 
 
 Father Molloy, 
 " For I'll! thinking you've not been 
 
 a very good boy." 
 " Oh," says Paddy, " so late in the 
 
 even in' I fear 
 "Twould throuble you such a long 
 
 story to hear. 
 For you've ten long miles o'er the 
 
 mountain to go, 
 While the road I' re to travel's much 
 
 longer, you know: 
 So give us your blessin' and get in the 
 
 saddle, 
 To tell all my sins my poor brain it 
 
 would addle; 
 And the docthor gave ordhers to 
 
 keep me so quiet — 
 'Twotdd distuib me to tell all my 
 
 sins, if I'd thry it, 
 
LOWELL. 
 
 749 
 
 And your reverence has towkl us, un- 
 less we tell all, 
 
 'Tis worse than not niakin' confes- 
 sion at all : 
 
 So I'll say. in a word, I'm no very 
 good boy, 
 
 And, therefore, yotn- blessin', sweet 
 Father MoUoy." 
 
 " Well, I'll read from a book," says 
 Father Molloy, 
 " The manifold sins that human- 
 ity's heir to; 
 
 And when you hear those that your 
 conscience annoy, 
 You'll just squeeze my hand, as 
 acknowledging thereto." 
 
 Then the Father began the dark roll 
 of iniquity. 
 
 And Paddy, thereat, felt his con- 
 science grow rickety, 
 
 And he gave such a squeeze that the 
 priest gave a roar — 
 
 " Oh, murdher!" says Paddy, " don't 
 read any more. 
 
 For, if you keep readin', by all that 
 is thrue. 
 
 Your reverence's fist will be soon 
 black and blue ; 
 
 Besides, to be throubled my con- 
 science begins, 
 
 That your reverence should have any 
 hand in my sins; 
 
 So you'd betther suppose I committed 
 them all. 
 
 For whether they're great ones, or 
 whether they're small, 
 
 Or if they're a dozen, or if they're 
 fourscore, 
 
 'Tis your reverence knows how to ab- 
 solve them, asthore: 
 
 So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very 
 
 good boy. 
 And, therefore, your blessin", sweet 
 
 Father Molloy." 
 
 " ^Yell,'' says Father Molloy, " if 
 
 your sins 1 forgive, 
 So you nnist forgive all your ene- 
 mies truly; 
 And i)romise me also tliat, if you 
 
 should live, 
 You'll leave off your tricks, and 
 
 begin to live newly," 
 " I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, 
 
 with a groan, 
 " Except that big vagabone, Micky 
 
 Mid one; 
 And him 1 will murdher if ever I 
 
 can — " 
 " Tut, tut!" says the priest, ''you're 
 
 a very bad man ; 
 For without your forgiveness, and 
 
 also repentance. 
 You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that 
 
 is my sentence." 
 " Poo!" says Paddy McCabe, " that's 
 
 a very hard case, 
 With your Eeverenceand Heaven I'm 
 
 content to make pace; 
 But with Heaven and your Pveverence 
 
 I wondher — Odi hone, 
 You would think of comparin' that 
 
 blackguard Malone — 
 But since I'm hard press'd and that 
 
 I Jiti(f side she breshed felt full o' sun 
 Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 
 
 She thought no v'ice hed such a 
 swing 
 
 Ez hisn in the choir; 
 My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring. 
 
 She knoioed the Lord was nigher. 
 
 An' she'd blush scarlit, right in 
 prayer, 
 
 When her new meetin'-bunnet 
 Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
 
 O' blue eyes sot upon it. 
 
 Thet night, I tell ye, she looked 
 aoine I 
 
 She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
 For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 
 
 Down to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She lieered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
 A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
 
 All ways to once her feelins flew 
 Like sparks in burnt up, paj^er. 
 
 He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. 
 Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 
 
 His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
 But hern went pity Zekle. 
 
 An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
 Ez though she wished him furder, 
 
 An' on her apples kep' to work, 
 Parin' away like murder. 
 
 " You want to see my pa, I s'pose ?" 
 " Wal ... no ... I come da- 
 signin' " — 
 " To see my ma ? She's sprinkliu' 
 clo'es 
 Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 
 
 To say why gals acts so or so, 
 Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 
 
 Mebby to mean yes an' say }w 
 Comes nateral to women. 
 
 He stood a spell on one foot fust. 
 Then stood a spell on t'other. 
 
 An' on viiiich one he felt the wust 
 He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 
 
 Says he, " I'd better call agin;" 
 Says she, " Think likely, mister;" 
 
 Thet last word pricked him lik.^ a 
 pin. 
 An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 
 
 When ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
 All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she was jes' the quiet kind 
 
 Whose naturs never vary. 
 Like streams that keep a summei 
 mind 
 
 Snowhid in Jenooary. 
 
LYTTON. 
 
 Tlie blood clost roiui" her heart fell 
 glued 
 
 Too tight lor all expressiii', 
 Tell mother see how luetters stood, 
 
 And gill "em both her blessiir. 
 
 Then her red come back like the tide 
 Down to the Bay o' Fimdy, 
 
 An' all 1 know is they was cried 
 In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 
 
 friTfJOUT AS I) ]VITHIX. 
 
 MYCoachmau. in the moonlight there. 
 Looks through the side-light of the 
 door ; 
 
 1 hear him with his brethren swear, 
 As I could do, — but only more. 
 
 Flattening his nose against the pane, 
 He envies me my brilliant lot. 
 
 Breathes on his aching tist in vain. 
 And dooms me to a place more hot. 
 
 lie sees me into supper go. 
 
 A silken wonder by my side. 
 Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 
 
 Of flounces, for the door too wide. 
 
 He thinks how happy is my arm 
 'Neath its white-gloved and je\\- 
 elled load : 
 
 And wishes me some dreadful harm. 
 Hearing the merry corks explode. 
 
 Meanwhile I inly curse the bore 
 Of hunting still the same old 
 coon. 
 
 And envy him, outside the door, 
 In golden quiets of the moon. 
 
 The winter wind is not so cold 
 As the bright smile he sees me win. 
 
 Nor the host's oldest wine so old 
 As our poor gabble sour and thin. 
 
 1 envy him the ungyved prance 
 By which his freezing feet he 
 warms, 
 
 And drag my lady's-chains and dance, 
 The galley-slave of dreary forms. 
 
 O, could he have my share of din. 
 And I his quiet !t- past a doubt 
 
 'T woidd still be one man bored 
 within, 
 And just another bored withotit. 
 
 Robert Bulwer Lytton (Owen Meredith). 
 
 [From Lucile.] 
 TITK STOMACIT OF MAX. 
 
 O iioriJ of all hours, the most bless'd 
 
 upon earth. 
 Blessed hour of our dinners! 
 
 The land of his birth: 
 The face of his first love; the bills 
 
 that he owes; 
 The twaddle of friends and the venom 
 
 of foes: 
 The sermon he heard when to church 
 
 he last went; 
 The money he borrow'd, the money 
 
 he spent; — 
 All of these things a man, I believe, 
 
 may forget. 
 And not be the worse for forgetting; 
 
 but yet 
 
 Never, never, oh, never ! earth's 
 
 luckiest sinner 
 Hath impunished forgotten the hour 
 
 of his dinner! 
 Indigestion, that conscience of every 
 
 bad stomach. 
 Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue 
 
 him with some ache 
 Or some pain ; and trouble, remorse- 
 less, his best ease. 
 As the Furies once troubled tlie sleep 
 
 of Orestes. 
 We may live without poetry, music, 
 
 and art; 
 We may live without conscience, and 
 
 live without heart; 
 We may live without friends; we may 
 
 live without books: 
 But civilized man cannot live without 
 
 cooks. 
 
752 
 
 LYTTON. 
 
 He may live without boolvs, — what is 
 
 knowledge but grieving ? 
 He may live without "hope, — what is 
 
 hope but deceiving ? 
 He may live without love, what is 
 
 passion but pining ? 
 But where is the man that can live 
 
 without dining ? 
 
 [From Lucile.] 
 FEW IN MANY. 
 
 The age is gone o'er 
 When a man may in all tilings be all. 
 
 We have more 
 Painters, poets, musicians, and art- 
 ists, no doubt. 
 Than the great Cinquecento gave 
 
 birth to; but out 
 Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, 
 
 when 
 Will a new Leonardo arise on our ken? 
 He is gone with the age which begat 
 
 him. Oui" own 
 Is too vast, and too complex, for one- 
 man alone 
 To embody its purpose, and hold it 
 
 shut close 
 In the palm of his hand. There 
 
 were giants in those 
 Irreclaimable days; but in these days 
 
 of ours. 
 In dividing the work we distribute 
 
 the powers. 
 Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoul- 
 ders sees more 
 Than the 'live giant's eyesight availed 
 
 to explore; 
 And in life's lengthen' d alphabet 
 
 what used to be 
 To our sires X Y Z is to us A I> C. 
 A Vanini is roasted alive for his 
 
 pains. 
 But a Bacon conies after and picks 
 
 np his brains. 
 A Bruno is angrily seized by the 
 
 throttle 
 And hunted about by thy ghost, 
 
 Aristotle, 
 Till a More or I^avater step into his 
 
 place : 
 Then the world turns and makes an 
 
 admiring grimace. 
 
 Once the men were so great and so 
 
 few, they appear, 
 Through a distant Olympian atmos- 
 
 IDhere, 
 Like vast Caryatids upholding the 
 
 age. 
 Now the men are so many and small, 
 
 disengage 
 One man from the million to mark 
 
 him, next moment 
 The crowd sweeps him hurriedly out 
 
 of your comment; 
 And since we seek vainly (to praise 
 
 in our songs) 
 'jVIid our fellows the size which to 
 
 heroes belongs. 
 We take the whole age for a hero, in 
 
 want 
 Of a better; and still, in its favor, 
 
 descant 
 On the strength and the beauty which, 
 
 failing to find 
 In any one man, we ascribe to man- 
 kind. 
 
 \_From Lucile.] 
 THE E nil ATI C GENIUS. 
 
 With irresolute finger he knock'd at 
 
 each one 
 Of the doorways of life, and abided 
 
 in none. 
 His course, by each star that would 
 
 cross it, was set. 
 And whatever he did he was sure to 
 
 regret, 
 That target, discuss' d by the travel- 
 lers of old. 
 Which to one appear'd argent, to one 
 
 appear' d gold, 
 To him, ever lingering on Doubt's 
 
 dizzy margent, 
 Appeared in one moment both golden 
 
 and argent. 
 The man who seeks one thing in life, 
 
 and but one. 
 May hope to achieve it before life be 
 
 done; 
 But he who seeks all things, wherever 
 
 he goes, 
 Only reaps from the hopes which 
 
 around him he sows 
 
A liarvest of barren regrets. And 
 
 the worm 
 That crawls on in the dust to the 
 
 definite term 
 Of its creeping existence, and sees 
 
 nothing more 
 Tiian tlie patli it pursues till its 
 
 creeping be o'ei-, 
 In its limited vision, is happier far 
 Than the Half-Sage, wliose course, 
 
 fix'd no friendly star 
 Is by eacli star distracted in turn, and 
 
 who knows 
 Each will still be as distant wherever 
 
 he goes. 
 
 [From Lucile.] 
 A CHAIiACTER. 
 
 The banker, well known 
 
 As wearing the longest philacteried 
 gow'n 
 
 Of all the rich Pliarisees England can 
 boast of; 
 
 A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp 
 wits made the most of 
 
 This world and the next; having 
 largely invested 
 
 Not only where treasure is never mo- 
 lested 
 
 By thieves, moth, or rust; Init on this 
 earthly ball 
 
 Where interest was high, and security 
 small. 
 
 Of mankind there was never a theory 
 yet 
 
 Not by some individual instance up- 
 set: 
 
 And so to that sorrowful verse of the 
 Psalm 
 
 Which declares that the wicked ex- 
 pand like the palm 
 
 In a world where the righteous are 
 stunted and pent, 
 
 A cheering exception did IJidley pre- 
 .sent. 
 
 Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven pros- 
 pered his piety. 
 
 The leader of every religious society. 
 
 Christian knowledge he labored 
 through life to promote 
 
 With personal profit, and knew how 
 to quote 
 
 Both the Stocks and the Scripture, 
 
 with equal advantage 
 To himself and admiring friends, in 
 
 this ('ant-Aa;e. 
 
 [From Lucile.] 
 FAME. 
 
 The poets pour wine; and, when 'tis 
 new, all decry it; 
 
 But, once let it be old, evei-y trifler 
 must ti'y it. 
 
 And Polonius, who praises no wine 
 that's not Massic, 
 
 Complains of my verse, that my verse 
 is not classic. 
 
 And Miss Tilburina, who sings, and 
 not badly. 
 
 My earlier verses, sighs *' Common- 
 place sadly!" 
 
 As for you, O Poionius, you vex me 
 
 but slightly; 
 But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam 
 
 so brightly 
 In despite of their languishing looks, 
 
 on my word, 
 That to see you look cross I can 
 
 scai'cely afford. 
 Yes! the silliest woman that smiles 
 
 on a bard 
 Better far than Longinus himself can 
 
 reward 
 The appeal to her feelings of which 
 
 she approves; 
 And the critics I most care to please 
 
 are the Loves. 
 
 Alas, friend! what boots it, a stone 
 
 at his head 
 And a bi-ass on his breast, — wlien a 
 
 man is once dead ? 
 Ay ! were fame the sole guerdon, poor 
 
 guerdon were then 
 Theirs who, strip])ing life bare, stand 
 
 forth models for men. 
 The reformer's? — a creed by poster- 
 ity learnt 
 A century after its author is burnt! 
 The poet's ? — a laurel that hides the 
 
 bald brow 
 It hath blighted! The painters? — 
 
 ask Kaphael now 
 
MACK AY. 
 
 Which Madonna's authentic I Tlie 
 statesman's — a name 
 
 For i^arties to blacken, or boys to de- 
 claim! 
 
 The soldier's? — three lines on the 
 colli Abbey pavement! 
 
 Were this all the life of the wise and 
 the brave meant, 
 
 All it ends in, thrice better, Netera, 
 it were 
 
 I'nregarded to sport with thine odor- 
 ous hair, [shade 
 
 Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the 
 
 And be loved, Avhile the roses yet 
 bloom overhead. 
 
 Than to sit by the lone hearth, and 
 think the long thought, 
 
 A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, en- 
 vied for naught 
 
 Save the name of John Milton! For 
 all men, indeed. 
 
 Who in some choice edition may 
 graciously read, jnote. 
 
 With fair illustration, and erudite 
 
 The song which the poet in bitter- 
 ness wrote. 
 
 Beat the poet, and notably beat him, 
 in this — 
 
 The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst 
 they miss 
 
 The grief of the man : Tasso's song — 
 not his madness ! 
 
 Dante's dreams — not his waking to 
 
 exile and sadness! 
 Milton's nmsic — but not Milton's 
 
 blindness! . . . 
 
 Yet rise. 
 My Milton, and answer, with those 
 
 noble eyes 
 Which the glory of heaven hath 
 
 blinded to earth! 
 Say — the life, in the living it, savors 
 
 of worth; 
 That the deed, in the doing it, reaches 
 
 its aim: 
 That the fact has a value ajmrt from 
 
 the fame : 
 That a deeper delight, in the mere 
 
 labor, pays 
 Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious 
 
 days : 
 And Shakespeare, though all Shake- 
 speare's writings were lost, 
 And his genius, though never a trace 
 
 of it crossed 
 Posterity's path, not the less would 
 
 have dwelt 
 In the isle with Miranda, with Handet 
 
 have felt 
 x\ll that Hamlet hath littered, and 
 
 haply where, pure 
 On its death-bed, wronged Love lay, 
 
 have moaned with the Moor! 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 TO A FRIEND AFRAID OF CRITICS. 
 
 Afraid of critics! an unworthy 
 fear: 
 
 Great minds must learn their great- 
 ness and be bold. 
 
 Walk on thy way; bring forth thine 
 own true thought; 
 
 Love thy high calling only for itself, 
 
 And find in working, recompense for 
 work. 
 
 And Envy's shaft shall whiz at thee 
 in vain. I just; 
 
 Despise not censure ; — weigh if it be 
 
 And if it be — amend, whate'er the 
 thought 
 
 Of him who cast it. Take the wise 
 man's praise, 
 
 And love thyself the more that thou 
 couldst earn 
 
 Meed so exalted; but the blame of 
 fools, 
 
 Let it blow over like an idle whiff 
 
 Of poisonous tobacco in the streets. 
 
 Invasive of thy unotfending nose: — 
 
 Their praise no better, only more per- 
 fumed. 
 
 The critics — let me paint them as 
 they are. 
 Some few I know, and love them from 
 my sold ; 
 
MACK AY. 
 
 755 
 
 Polished, acute, deep read ; of inborn 
 
 taste 
 (Adtiired into a virtue ; full of pith 
 And kindly vigor, having won their 
 
 spurs 
 In the great rivalry of friendly mind, 
 And generous to others, though un- 
 known, 
 Who would, having a thought, let all 
 
 men know 
 The new discovery. But these are 
 
 rare; 
 And if thou find one, take him to 
 
 thy heart, 
 And think his unbought praise both 
 
 palm and crown, 
 A thing worth living for, were nought 
 
 beside. 
 Fear thou no critic, if thou'rt true 
 
 thyself; — 
 And look for fame noiv if the Avise 
 
 approve. 
 Or from a wiser jury yet unborn. 
 The poetaster may be harmed enough. 
 But criticasters cannot crush a bard. 
 
 If to be famous be thy sole intent, 
 And greatness be a mark beyond thy 
 
 reach. 
 Manage the critics, and thou 'It win 
 
 the game; 
 Invite them to thy board, and give 
 
 them feasts, 
 And foster them with luu'elaxing 
 
 care ; 
 And they will praise thee in their 
 
 partial sheets, 
 And quite ignore the worth of better 
 
 men. 
 But if thou wilt not court them, let 
 
 them go. 
 And scorn the praise that sells itself 
 
 for wine. 
 Or tacks itself upon success alone. 
 Hanging like spittle on a rich man's 
 
 beard. 
 
 One, if thou'rt great, will cite from 
 
 thy new book 
 The tamest passage, — something that 
 
 thy soul 
 Revolts at, now the inspiration's o'er. 
 And would give all thou hast to blot 
 
 from print 
 
 And sink into oblivion; — and will 
 vaunt 
 
 The thing as beautiful, transcendent, 
 rare — 
 
 The best thing thou hast done! An- 
 other friend. 
 
 With finer sense, Avill praise thy 
 greatest thought, 
 
 Yetcavil at it; putting in his "6h<.s" 
 
 And " yetf<,'^ and little obvious hints, 
 
 That though 'tis good, the critic could 
 have made 
 
 A work superior in its every part. 
 
 Another, in a pert and savage mood. 
 Without a reason, will condenni thee 
 
 quite, 
 And strive to quench thee in a para- 
 graph. 
 Another, with dishonest waggery, 
 Will twist, misquote, and utterly per- 
 vert 
 Thy thoughts and words; and hug 
 
 himself meanwhile 
 In the delusion, pleasant to his soul. 
 That thou art crushed, and he a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 Another, with a specious fair pre- 
 tence. 
 
 Immaculately wise, will skim thy 
 book, 
 
 And, self-sufficient, from his desk 
 look down 
 
 With undisguised contempt on thee 
 and thine; 
 
 And sneer and snarl thee, from his 
 weekly court. 
 
 From an idea, spawn of his conceit. 
 
 That the best means to gain a great 
 renown 
 
 For wisdom is to sneer at all the 
 world. 
 
 With strong denial that a good ex- 
 ists ; — 
 
 That all is bad, imperfect, feeble, 
 stale. 
 
 Except this critic, who outshines 
 mankind. 
 
 Another, with a foolish zeal, will 
 prate 
 Of thy great excellence, and on thy 
 head 
 
756 
 
 MAC KAY. 
 
 Heap epithet on epithet of praise 
 
 In terms preposterous, that thou wilt 
 blusli 
 
 To be so smothered with such ful- 
 some lies. 
 
 Another, calmer, with laudations 
 thin. 
 
 Unsavory and weak, will make it 
 seem 
 
 That his good-nature, not thy merit, 
 prompts 
 
 The baseless adidation of his pen. 
 
 Another, with a bulldog's bark, will 
 bay 
 
 Foul names against thee for some 
 fancied slight 
 
 Which thou ne'er dream' dst of, and 
 will damn thy work 
 
 For spite against the worker; while 
 the next. 
 
 Who thinks thy faith or politics a 
 crime. 
 
 Will bray displeasure from his month- 
 ly stall. 
 
 And prove thee dunce, that disagre'st 
 with him. 
 
 And, last of all, some solemn sage, 
 
 whose nod 
 'I'riraestral awes a world of little 
 
 wits. 
 Will carefully avoid to name thy 
 
 name. 
 Although thy words are in the mouths 
 
 of men. 
 And thy ideas in their inmost hearts, 
 Moulding events, and fashioning thy 
 
 time 
 To nobler efforts. Little matters 
 
 it! 
 Whate'er thou art, thy value will ap- 
 pear. 
 If thou art bad, no praise will buoy 
 
 thee up; 
 If thou art good, no censure weigh 
 
 thee down, 
 Nor silence nor neglect prevent thy 
 
 fame. 
 So fear not thou the critics! Speak 
 
 thy thought; 
 And, if thou'ri worthy, in the peo- 
 ple's love 
 Thy name shall live, while lasts thy 
 
 mother tonerue ! 
 
 AT A CLUB-DINNER. 
 THE OLD FOGIES. 
 
 We merry three 
 
 Old fogies be; 
 The crow's-foot crawls, the wrinkle 
 comes. 
 
 Our heads grow bare 
 
 Of the bonnie brown hair. 
 Our teeth grow shaky in our gums. 
 Gone are the joys that once we knev/, 
 Over the green, and under the blue. 
 Our blood runs calm, as calm can be, 
 And we're old fogies — fogies three. 
 
 Yet if we be 
 
 Old fogies three 
 The life still pulses in our veins; 
 
 And if the heart 
 
 Be didled in part. 
 There's sober wisdom in oui- brains. 
 We may have heard that Hope's a 
 
 knave. 
 And Fame a breath beyond the grave. 
 But what of that — if wiser grown. 
 We make the passing day our own. 
 And find true joy where joy can be. 
 And live our lives, though fogies 
 three ? 
 
 Ay — though we be 
 
 Old fogies three. 
 We're not so dulled as not to dine; 
 
 And not so old 
 
 As to be cold 
 To wit, to beauty, and to wine. 
 Our hope is less, our memory more; 
 Our sunshine brilliant as of yore. 
 At four o'clock, 'twixt noon and 
 
 night, 
 'Tis warm as morning, and as bright. 
 And every age bears blessings free. 
 Though we're old fogies — fogies 
 
 three. 
 
 THE JOLl.V COMPANIONS. 
 
 Jolly companions! three times three I 
 Let us confess what fools we be ! 
 We eat more dinner than hunger 
 
 craves. 
 We di'ink our passage to early graves. 
 And fill, and swill, till our foreheads 
 
 burst, 
 P''or sake of the wine, and not of th£: 
 
 thirst. 
 
MAG KAY. 
 
 757 
 
 Jolly companions! three times three, 
 
 And wished I Tnight 
 
 Let us confess what fools we be ! 
 
 Take sudden flight 
 
 
 And dine alone, 
 
 We toil and moil from morn to night, 
 
 Unseen, unknown. 
 
 Slaves and drudges in health's despite, 
 
 On a mutton chop and a hot potato, 
 
 Gathering and scraping painful gold 
 
 Reading my Homer, or my Plato. 
 
 To hold and garner till we're old; 
 
 
 And die, mayhap, in middle prime, 
 
 It conies to this. 
 
 Loveless, joyless, all our time. 
 
 The truest bliss 
 
 Jolly companions! three times three, 
 
 For great or small 
 
 Let us confess what fools we be! 
 
 Is free to all ; 
 
 
 Like the fresh air. 
 
 Or else we leave our warm fireside, 
 
 Like flowerets fair, 
 
 Friends and comrades, bairns and 
 
 Like night or day. 
 
 bride. 
 
 Like work or play; 
 
 To mingle in the world's affairs. 
 
 And books that charm or make us 
 
 And vex our souls with public cares; 
 
 wiser, 
 
 And have our motives misconstrued, 
 
 Are better comrades than a Kaiser. 
 
 Reviled, maligned, misunderstood. 
 
 
 Jolly companions! three times three, 
 
 
 Let us confess what fools we be ! 
 
 
 
 THE GREAT CRITICS. 
 
 
 Whom shall we praise ? 
 
 HAPPIXESS. 
 
 Let's praise the dead! 
 
 
 In no men's ways 
 
 I'a'^e drunk good wine 
 
 Their heads they raise. 
 
 From Rhone and Rhine, 
 
 Nor strive for bread 
 
 And filled the glass 
 
 With you or me, — 
 
 To friend or lass 
 
 So, do you see ? 
 
 Mid jest and song. 
 
 We'll praise the dead! 
 
 The gay night long. 
 
 Let living men 
 
 And found the bowl 
 
 Dare but to claim 
 
 Inspired the soul. 
 
 From tongue or pen 
 
 With neither Avit nor wisdom richer 
 
 Their meed of fame. 
 
 Tlian comes from water in the pitcher. 
 
 We'll cry them down, 
 
 
 Spoil their renown. 
 
 I've ridden far 
 
 Deny their sense. 
 
 In coach and car, 
 
 Wit, eloquence. 
 
 Sped four-in-hand 
 
 Poetic tire, 
 
 Across the land ; 
 
 All they desire. 
 
 On gallant steed 
 
 Our say is said, 
 
 Have measured speed, 
 
 Long live the dead ! 
 
 With the summer wind 
 
 
 That la'^^^ed behind* 
 
 
 Hut found more joy for days to- 
 
 
 gether 
 
 BE QUIET, do: —I'LL CALL MY 
 
 • n tramping o'er the mountain 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 heather. 
 
 
 
 As I was sitting in a wood. 
 
 I've dined, long since, 
 
 Under an oak-tree's leafy cover. 
 
 With king and prince, 
 
 Musing in pleasant solitude, 
 
 In soleuui state. 
 
 Who should come by but John, my 
 
 Stiff and sedate; 
 
 lover! 
 
75S 
 
 MACK AY. 
 
 He pressed my hand and kissed my 
 
 "But that," quoth he, and twirled 
 
 cheek; 
 
 his thumb. 
 
 Then, warmer growing, kissed tlie 
 
 So blithe he was, and free, 
 
 otlier, 
 
 " Is quite enough for happiness 
 
 Wliile I exclaimed, and strove to 
 
 For a little man like me." 
 
 shriek, 
 
 
 "jBe quiet, dol — Fll call my 
 
 And oft this little, very little, 
 
 mother '.''^ 
 
 Happy little man. 
 
 
 Would talk a little to himself 
 
 He saw my anger was sincere, 
 
 About the great world's plan: 
 
 And lovingly began to chide me; 
 
 '• Though people think me V(m\ 
 
 Then wiping from my cheek the 
 
 poor. 
 
 tear, 
 
 I feel I'm very glad. 
 
 He sat him on the grass beside 
 
 And this I'm sure could scarcely be 
 
 me, 
 
 If I were very bad. 
 
 He feigned such pretty amorous 
 
 Rich knaves who cannot rest o' 
 
 woe, 
 
 nights. 
 
 Breathed such sweet vows one after 
 
 At every turn I see. 
 
 other. 
 
 While cosy sleep unbidden comes 
 
 I could but smile, while whispering 
 
 To a quiet man like me. 
 
 low, 
 
 
 "2)e quiet, do! — I'' 11 call my 
 
 " For though I'm little, very little, 
 
 inoilter .'^' 
 
 Do whate'er I can, 
 
 
 Yet every morning when I shave. 
 
 He talked so long, and talked so 
 
 I shave an honest man ; 
 
 well. 
 
 And eveiy night when I go home, 
 
 And swore he meant not to deceive 
 
 My winsome little wife. 
 
 me; 
 
 Receives me smiling at the door. 
 
 I felt more grief than I can tell. 
 
 And loves me more than life: — 
 
 When with a sigh he rose to leave 
 
 And this is joy that kings them- 
 
 me. 
 
 selves. 
 
 " John ! "' said I; " and must thou 
 
 If thoughts were spoken free. 
 
 go? 
 
 Might give their sceptres to ex- 
 
 I love thee better than all other; 
 
 change 
 
 There is no need to hurry so, — 
 
 With a little man like me. 
 
 I never meant to cull my mother.'" 
 
 
 
 " And I've a little, quite a little. 
 
 
 Bonnie little child. 
 
 
 A little maid with golden hair. 
 
 THE LITTLE MAN. 
 
 And blue eyes bnght and mild ; 
 
 
 She sits and prattles on my knee, 
 
 There was a little, very little, 
 
 She's merry as a song, 
 
 Quiet little man. 
 
 She's pleasant as a ray of light, 
 
 He wore a little overcoat 
 
 She keeps my heart from wrong. 
 
 The color of the tan ; 
 
 And so, let kingdoms rise or fall, 
 
 And when his weekly Avage was earned 
 
 I'll earn my daily fee. 
 
 On Saturday, at night. 
 
 And think the world is good 
 
 He had but half-a-crown to spare 
 
 enough 
 
 To keep his spirits light; 
 
 For a little man like me." 
 
MERRICK. 
 
 759 
 
 James Merrick. 
 
 THE CHAMELEON. 
 
 Two travellers of conceited cast, 
 As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, 
 And, on their way, in friendly chat. 
 Now talked of this, and then of that. 
 Discoursed a while, 'mongst other 
 
 matter. 
 Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
 
 " A stranger animal," cries one, 
 " Sure never lived beneath the sun; 
 A lizard's body, lean and long; 
 A fish's head; a serpent's tongue; 
 Its foot with triple claw disjoined; 
 And what a length of tail behind ! 
 How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
 Who ever saw so fine a blue ? " 
 
 "Hold tliere," the other quick re- 
 plies ; 
 
 '"Tis green — I saw it with these 
 eyes, 
 
 As late with open mouth it lay, 
 
 And warmed it in the sunny ray ; 
 
 Stretched at its ease, the beast I 
 viewed, 
 
 And saw it eat the air for food." 
 
 " I've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
 And must again affirm it blue; 
 At leisure I the beast surveyed 
 Extended in the cooling shade." 
 
 "'Tis green, 'tis green, sir. I assure 
 
 ye." 
 "Green!" cries tlie other, in a fury: 
 " Why, sir. d'ye think I've lost my 
 
 eyes ? " 
 "'Twere no great loss," the friend 
 
 replies ; 
 " For if tliey always serve you thus, 
 You'll find them but of little use," 
 
 So high at last the contest rose, 
 P^rom words they almost came to 
 blows ; 
 
 When luckily came by a third — 
 To him the question they referred ; 
 And begged he'd tell them, if lie 
 
 knew, 
 Whether the thing was green, or 
 
 blue ? 
 
 "Sirs," cried the umpire, "cease 
 
 your pother, 
 The creature's neither one nor 
 
 t'otlier; 
 I caught the animal last night. 
 And viewed it o'er by candle-light; 
 I marked it well — 'twas black as jet; 
 You stare! but, sirs, I've got it yet, 
 And can produce it." "Pray, sir, 
 
 do; 
 I'll lay my life the thing is blue." 
 
 " And I'll engage that, when you've 
 
 seen 
 The reptile, you'll pronounce him 
 
 green." 
 "Well, then, at once, to ease the 
 
 doubt," 
 Eeplies the man, " I'll turn hlni out; 
 And, when before your eyes I've set 
 
 him, 
 If you don't find him black, I'll eat 
 
 him." 
 He said; tlien full before tlieir sight 
 Produced the beast, and lo — 'twas 
 
 white ! 
 
 Botli stared ; the man looks wondrous 
 
 wise ! 
 " My cliildren," the chameleon cries 
 (Then first the creature found a 
 
 tongue), 
 " You all are right, and all are 
 
 wrong; 
 When next you talk of wliat yoii 
 
 view, 
 Think others see as well as you ; 
 Nor wonder if you find that none 
 Prefers yom- eyesight to his owr..'' 
 
7t)0 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 [From an Epistle to Samuel liogers.] 
 THE MODERN PUFFING SYSTEM. 
 
 I'.VLiKE those feeble gales of praise 
 W'liich critics blew in former days, 
 Our modern puffs are of a kind 
 That truly, really " raise the wind ; "' 
 And since they've fairly set in blow- 
 ing. 
 We find them the best trade-winds 
 
 going. 
 What storm is on the deep — and 
 
 more 
 Is the great power of Puff on shore, 
 Which jumps to glory's future tenses 
 Before the present even commences, 
 And makes " immortal " and "di- 
 vine" of us. 
 Before the workl has read one Ime of 
 
 us. 
 In old times when the god of song 
 Drew his own two-horse team along, 
 Carrying inside a bard or two 
 Booked for posterity " all through," 
 Their luggage, a few close-packed 
 
 rhymes 
 (Like yours, my friend, for after- 
 times) 
 So slow the pull to Fame's abode 
 That folks oft slumbered on the road ; 
 And Homer's self sometimes, they 
 
 say. 
 Took to his nightcap on the way. 
 But now, how different is the story 
 With our new galloping sons of glory. 
 Who, scorning all such slack and 
 
 slow time. 
 Dash to posterity in no time! 
 Raise but one general blast of puff 
 To start your author — that's enough: 
 In vain the critics sit to watch him 
 Try at the starting-post to catch him ; 
 He's off — the putters carry it hol- 
 low — 
 The critics, if they please, may fol- 
 low; 
 Ere they've laid down their first po- 
 sitions, 
 
 He's fairly blown through six edi- 
 tions! 
 In vain doth Edinburgh dispense 
 Her blue-and-yellow pestilence 
 ( That plague so awful in my time 
 To young and touchy sons of rhyme) ; 
 The Quarterly, at three months' 
 
 date. 
 To catch the Unread One comes too 
 
 late; 
 And nonsense, littered in a hurry, 
 Becomes " im.mortal " spite of Mur- 
 ray. 
 
 [From The Fiuhjc Familij in Paris]. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MISS BIDDrS 
 LETTERS. 
 
 AViiAT a time since I wrote! — I'm a 
 sad naughty girl — 
 
 Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in 
 a twirl, 
 
 Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee- 
 totum 
 
 Between all its twirls gives a letter 
 to note 'em. 
 
 But, Lord, such a place! and then, 
 Dolly, my dresses, 
 
 My gowns, so divine! — there's no 
 language expresses, • 
 
 Except just, the two words " su- 
 perbe," "magnifique," 
 
 The trimmings of that which I had 
 home last week! 
 
 It is called — I forget — a la — some- 
 thing which sounded 
 
 IJke ulicampane — but, in truth, I'm 
 confounded 
 
 And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that 
 troublesome boy's 
 
 (Bob's) cookery language, and Ma- 
 dame Le Koi's: 
 
 What Avith fillets of roses, and fillets 
 of veal. 
 
 Things garni with lace, and things 
 rjarni with eel, 
 
MOORE. 
 
 761 
 
 One's hair and one's cutlets both en 
 
 papillote. 
 And a thousand more things 1 sluill 
 
 ne'er have by rote, 
 1 can scarce tell the difference, at 
 
 least as to phrase, 
 Between beef a la Psi/clie and curls 
 
 o la braise, — 
 But, in short, dear, I'm tricked out 
 
 quite a la fran(;aise, 
 With my bonnet— so beautiful!— high 
 
 up and poking, 
 Like things that are put to keep 
 chiinneys from smoking. 
 
 Where slialll begin with the endless 
 
 delights 
 Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, 
 
 and sights — 
 This dear busy place, where there's 
 
 nothing transacting. 
 But dresshig and dinnering, dancing 
 
 and acting '? 
 
 Last night, at the Beaujon, a place 
 
 where — I doubt 
 If 1 Avell can describe — there are 
 
 cars, that set out 
 From a lighted pavilion, high up in 
 
 the air, 
 And rattle you down, Doll — you 
 
 hardly know where. 
 These vehicles, mind me, in which 
 
 you go through 
 This delightfidly dangerous journey, 
 
 hold tico, 
 borne cavalier asks, with humility, 
 
 whether 
 You'll venture down with him — 
 
 you smile — 'tis a match; 
 In an instant you're seated, and down 
 
 both together 
 Go thmidering, as if you went post 
 
 to old Scratch! 
 Well, it was but last night, as I stood 
 
 and remarked 
 (_)u the looks and odd ways of the 
 
 girls who embarked. 
 The impatience of some for the peril- 
 ous flight. 
 The forced giggle of others, 'twixt 
 
 pleasure and fright. 
 That there came up — imagine, dear 
 
 Doll, if you can — 
 
 A fine, sallow, sublime, sort of Wer- 
 ter-faced man. 
 
 With nmstachios that gave (what we 
 we read of so oft) 
 
 The dear Corsair expression, half sav- 
 age, half soft, 
 
 As hyienas in love may be fancied to 
 look, or 
 
 A something between Abelard and 
 old Bhicher! 
 
 Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncov- 
 ering his head, 
 
 (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad 
 English said, 
 
 "Ah! my dear — if Ma'mselle vill be 
 so vei-y good — 
 
 Just for von'liUle course " — though 
 I scarce understood 
 
 What he wished me to do, I said, 
 thank him, I would. 
 
 Off we set — and, tliough 'faith, dear, 
 I hardly knew wliether 
 My head or my heels were the up- 
 permost then, 
 
 For 'twas like heaven and earth, 
 Dolly, coming together,— 
 Yet, spite of thedanger, Ave dared 
 it again. 
 
 And oh ! as I gazed on the features 
 and air 
 Of the man who for me all tliis 
 peril defied, 
 
 1 could fancy almost he and I m ere a 
 pair 
 Of unhappy young lovers,who thus, 
 side by side. 
 
 Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, 
 or dagger, a 
 
 Desperate dash down the falls of Ni- 
 agara ! 
 
 Well, it isiiH the king, after all, my 
 
 dear creature! 
 But don't you go laugh, now— 
 
 there's nothing to quiz in't— 
 For grandeur of air and for grimness 
 
 of feature, 
 He might be a king, Doll, though, 
 
 hang him, he isn't. 
 At first I felt hurt, for I wished it, I 
 
 own, 
 If for no other cause than to vex Miss 
 
 Malone, — 
 
rALMER. 
 
 (The great heiress, you know, of 
 Shandangan, who's here. 
 
 Showing off with such airs and a real 
 Casliniere, 
 
 While mine's but a paltry old rabbit- 
 skin, dear!) 
 
 But says Pa, after deeply considering 
 the thing, 
 
 "I am just as well pleased it should 
 not be the king; 
 
 As I think for my Biddy so gentille 
 and jolie, 
 Whose charms may their price in 
 an honest way fetch. 
 That a 13randenburg — (what is a 
 Brandenburg, Uolly ?) — 
 Would be, after all, no such very 
 great catch. 
 
 William Pitt Palmer. 
 
 THE SMACK IX SCHOOL. 
 
 A DISTRICT school, uot far away, 
 Mid Berkshire's hills, one winter's 
 
 day. 
 Was hunnningwith its wonted noise 
 Of threescore mingled girls and boys; 
 Some few upon their tasks intent. 
 But more on furtive mischief bent. 
 The while the master's downward 
 
 look 
 Was fastened on a copy-book ; 
 When suddenly, behind his back, 
 Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! 
 As 't were a battery of bliss 
 Let off in one tremendous kiss! 
 " What's that ?" the startled master 
 
 cries; 
 " That, thir," a little imp replies, 
 '• Wath William Willith, if you 
 
 pleathe, — 
 I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe ! " 
 With frown to make a statue thrill. 
 The master thundered, "Hither, 
 
 Will!" 
 Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, 
 
 With stolen chattels on his back. 
 Will hung his head in fear and shame, 
 And to the awful presence came, — 
 A great, green, bashful simpleton, 
 The butt of all good-natured fun. 
 With smile suppressed, and birch 
 
 vipraised. 
 The thunderer faltered, — "I'm 
 
 amazed 
 That you, my biggest pupil, should 
 Be guilty of an act so rude ! 
 Before the whole set school to boot — 
 What evil genius put you to 't '? " 
 "'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the 
 
 lad; 
 " I did not mean to be so bad; 
 But when Susannah shook her curls. 
 And whispered, I was 'fraid of girls 
 And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, 
 I couldn't stand it, sir, at all. 
 But up and kissed her on the spot! 
 I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. 
 But, somehow, from her looks — 
 
 boo-hoo — 
 I thought she kii-d o' wished me to ! " 
 
Thomas William Parsons. 
 
 SA/XT PEHA y. 
 ADDRESSED TO II. T. P. 
 
 When to any saint I pray, 
 It shall be to Saint Peniy. 
 He alone, of all the brood, 
 Ever did me any good : 
 Many I have tried that are 
 Humbugs in the calendar. 
 
 On the Atlantic faint and sick, 
 Once I prayed to Saint Dominick: 
 He ^yas holy, sure, and wise ; — 
 Was't not he that did devise 
 Auto da Fes and rosaries '? — 
 But for one in my condition 
 This good saint was no physician. 
 
 Next in pleasant Normandie, 
 I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
 In the great cathedral, where 
 
 All the ancient kings repose ; 
 But, how I was swindled there 
 
 At the "Golden Fleece," — he 
 knows ! 
 
 In my wanderings, vague and vari- 
 ous, 
 Reaching Naples — as I lay 
 Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 
 I besoughtSaint Januarius. 
 But I was a fool to try him ; 
 Naught I said could liquefy him; 
 And I swear he did me wrong, 
 Keeping me shut up so long 
 In that pest-house, with obscene 
 Jews and Greeks and things un- 
 clean — 
 What need had I of quarantine? 
 
 In Sicily at least a score — 
 In Spain about as many more — 
 And in Rome almost as many 
 As tlie loves of Don Giovanni, 
 Did I pray to — sans reply ; 
 Devil take the tribe ! — said I, 
 
 Worn with travel, tired and lame. 
 
 To Assisi's walls I came: 
 
 Sad and full of homesick fancies, 
 
 I addressed me to Saint Francis : 
 
 But the Ijeggar never did 
 
 Any thing as he was bid. 
 
 Never gave me aught — but fleas — 
 
 Plenty liad I at Assise. 
 
 But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 
 Hard by the Rhone, 1 found a 
 saint 
 Gifted with a wondrous juice. 
 
 Potent for the worst complaint. 
 'Twas at Avignon tliat first — 
 In the witching time of thirst — 
 To my brain the knowledge came 
 Of this blessed Catholic's name; 
 Forty miles of dust that day 
 Made me welcome St. Peray. 
 
 Though till then I had not heard 
 Aught about him, ere a third 
 Of a litre passed my lips, 
 AH saints else were in eclipse. 
 For his gentle spirit glided 
 
 With such magic into mine. 
 That methought such bliss as I did. 
 
 Poet never di-ew from wine. 
 
 Rest he gave me, and refection. 
 Chastened hopes, calm retrospec- 
 tion, 
 Softened images of sorrow, 
 Bright forebodings for the morrow. 
 Charity for what is past. 
 Faith in something good at last. 
 
 Now, why should any almanac 
 The name of this good creature lack '? 
 Or wherefore should the breviary 
 Omit a saint so sage and merry ? 
 The pope himself should grant a day 
 Especially to Saint Peray. 
 But since no day hath been appointed 
 On purpose, by the Lord's anointed. 
 Let us not wait — we'll do him riglit; 
 Send round your bottles, Hal, — and 
 set your night. 
 
John Pierpont. 
 
 WHITTLING. 
 
 The Yankee boy, before he's sent to 
 
 school, 
 Well knows the mysteries of that 
 
 magic tool, 
 Tlie pocket-knife. To that his wist- 
 
 fnl eye 
 Tnrns, while he hears his mother's 
 
 lullaby; 
 His hoarded cents he gladly gives to 
 
 get it, 
 Then leaves no stone unturned till he 
 
 can whet it; 
 And in the education of the lad 
 No little part tliat implement hath 
 
 liad. 
 His pocket-knife to the young whit- 
 
 tler brings 
 A growing knowledge of material 
 
 things. 
 
 Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's 
 
 art. 
 His cliestnut whistle and his shingle 
 
 cart, 
 His elder pop-gun with its hickory 
 
 rod, 
 Its sharp explosion and rebounding 
 
 wad. 
 His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper 
 
 tone 
 That murniuis from his pumpkin- 
 stalk troHd)one, 
 Conspire to teach the boy. To these 
 
 succeed 
 His bow, his arrow of a featliered 
 
 reed, 
 His windmill, raised the passing 
 
 breeze to win. 
 His water-wheel, that turns upon a 
 
 pin. 
 Or, if his father lives upon the sliore, 
 You'll see his ship, " beam ends upon 
 
 the floor," 
 
 Full rigged, with raking masts, and 
 timbers staunch, 
 
 And waiting, near the wasli-tub, for 
 a launch. 
 
 Thus, by his genius and his jack- 
 knife driven 
 
 Ere long he'll solve you any problem 
 given; 
 
 Make any gimcrack, musical or 
 mute, 
 
 A plough, a couch, an organ, or a 
 flute ; 
 
 Make you a locomotive or a clock, 
 
 Cut a canal, or build a floating- 
 dock, 
 
 Or lead forth beauty from a marble 
 block; — 
 
 Make anything, in short, for sea or 
 sliore. 
 
 From a child's rattle to a seventy- 
 four ; — 
 
 Make it, said I? — Ay, when he un- 
 dertakes it, 
 
 He'll make the thing and tlie ma- 
 chine tliat makes it. 
 
 And when the tiling is made, — 
 
 whether it be 
 To move on earth, in air. or on the 
 
 sea; 
 Whether on water, o'er the waves to 
 
 glide. 
 Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or 
 
 slide; 
 Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or 
 
 ring. 
 Whether it be a piston or a spring. 
 Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood 
 
 or brass. 
 The thing designed shall surely come 
 
 to pass ; 
 For, when his hand's upon it, you 
 
 may know 
 That there's go in it, and he'll make 
 
 it go. 
 
POPE. 
 
 765 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 {From the Dunciad.] 
 DULLNESS. 
 
 In eldest time, ere mortals writ or 
 
 Ere Pallas 'issued from the Thvmder- 
 
 er's head, 
 Dullness o'er all possessed her ancient 
 
 right. 
 Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night : 
 Fate in their dotage this fair idiot 
 
 gave, 
 Gross as her sire, and as her mother 
 
 grave, 
 Laborious, heavy, busy, bold and 
 
 blind. 
 She ruled, in native anarchy, the 
 
 mind. 
 Still her old empire to restore she 
 
 tries. 
 For, born a goddess, Dullness never 
 
 dies. 
 
 How hints, like spawn, scarce quick 
 in embryo lie. 
 
 How new-born nonsense first is 
 taught to cry ; 
 
 Maggots half-formed in rhyme exact- 
 ly meet. 
 
 And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. 
 
 Here one poor word an hundred 
 clenches makes, 
 
 And ductile Dullness new meanders 
 takes ; 
 
 There motlev images her fancy strike, 
 
 Figures ill-pah-ed, and similes unlike. 
 
 She sees a mob of metaphors ad- 
 vance. 
 
 Pleased with the madness of the mazy 
 dance: 
 
 How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; 
 
 How Farce and Epic get a jumbled 
 race ; 
 
 How Time itself stands still at her 
 command. 
 
 Realms shift their place, and ocean 
 turns to land. 
 
 Here gay description Egypt glads 
 with showers, 
 
 Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca 
 
 flowers; 
 Glittering with ice here hoary hills 
 
 are seen. 
 There painted valleys of eternal 
 
 green, 
 In cold December fragrant chaplets 
 
 blow. 
 And heavy harvests nod beneath the 
 
 snow. 
 All these, and more, the cloud- 
 compelling queen 
 Beholds through fogs, that magnify 
 
 the scene : 
 She, tinselled o'er in robes of varying 
 
 hues. 
 With self-applause her wild creation 
 
 views; 
 Sees momentary monsters rise and 
 
 fall. 
 And with her own fool's-colors gilds 
 
 them all. 
 
 [From The Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. Th< 
 Prologue to the Satires.] 
 
 AN AUTHOR'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Shut, shut the door, good John! 
 
 fatigued, I said, 
 Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm 
 
 dead. 
 The Dog-star rages: nay, 'tis past a 
 
 doubt. 
 All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out : 
 Fire in each eye, and papers in each 
 
 hand, 
 They rave, recite, and madden round 
 
 the land. 
 What walls can guard me, or what 
 
 shades can hide ? 
 They pierce my thickets, through my 
 
 grot they glide, 
 By land, by water, they renew the 
 
 charge, 
 They stop the chariot, and they board 
 
 the bai'ge; 
 
766 
 
 POPE. 
 
 No place is sacred, not the church is 
 
 free. 
 Even Sunday sliines no Sabbatli-day 
 
 to me : 
 Tlien from the Mint walks forth the 
 
 man of rhyme, 
 Happy to catch me, just at dinner- 
 time. 
 Is there a parson much be-mused 
 
 in beer, 
 A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, 
 A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul 
 
 to cross, 
 Who pens a stanza, when he should 
 
 engross ? 
 Is there, who, locked from ink and 
 
 paper, scrawls 
 With desperate charcoal round his 
 
 darkened walls ? 
 All fly to T wick' nam, and in humble 
 
 strain 
 Apply to me, to keep them mad or 
 
 vain. 
 Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the 
 
 laws, 
 Imputes to me and to my works the 
 
 cause : 
 Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife 
 
 elope. 
 And curses wit, and poetry, and 
 
 Pope. 
 Friend to my life! (which did 
 
 not you prolong. 
 The world had wanted many an idle 
 
 song) 
 AVhat drop or nostrum can this plague 
 
 remove ? 
 Or which must end me, a fool's wrath 
 
 or love ? 
 A dire dilemma! either way I'm 
 
 sped. 
 If foes, they write, — if friends, they 
 
 read me dead. 
 Seized and tied down to judge, how 
 
 wretched I! 
 Who can't be silent, and who will not 
 
 lie: 
 To laugh, were want of goodness and 
 
 of grace. 
 And to be grave, exceeds all power 
 
 of face. 
 I sit with sad civility, I read 
 With honest anguish and an aching 
 
 head ; 
 
 And drop at last,but in unwilling ears. 
 This saving counsel, "' Keep your 
 
 l)iece nine years." 
 Nine years! cries he, who high in 
 
 Drury Lane, 
 Lulled by soft zephyrs through the 
 
 broken pane. 
 Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints be- 
 fore Term ends. 
 Obliged by hunger, and request of 
 
 friends : • 
 
 " The piece, you think, is incorrect ? 
 
 Why, take it, 
 I'm all submission, what you'd have 
 
 it, make it." 
 Three things another's modest 
 
 wishes bound. 
 My friendship, and a prologue, and 
 
 ten pound. 
 Pitholeon sends to me: "Youknow 
 
 his Grace, 
 I want a patron ; ask him for a 
 
 place." 
 Pitholeon libelled me — "but here's 
 
 a letter 
 Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew 
 
 no better. 
 Dare you refuse him ? Curl invites 
 
 to dine. 
 He'll Avrite a journal, or he'll turn 
 
 divine." 
 Bless me! a packet. — "'Tis a 
 
 stranger sues, 
 A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." 
 If I dislike it, " Furies, death, and 
 
 rage!" 
 If I approve, " Commend It to the 
 
 stage." 
 There (tliank my stars) my whole 
 
 commission ends, 
 The players and I are, luckily, no 
 
 friends. 
 Fired that the house reject him, 
 
 " 'Sdeath, I'll print it. 
 And shame the fools — Your inter- 
 est, sir, with Lintot." 
 Lintot, dull rogue! will think your 
 
 price too much : 
 "Not, sir, if you revise it, and re- 
 touch." 
 All my demurs but double his at- 
 tacks ; 
 At last he whispers, " Do; and we go 
 
 snacks." 
 
POPE. 
 
 767 
 
 Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the 
 
 door, 
 Sir, let me see your works and you no 
 
 more. 
 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began 
 
 to spring. 
 (Midas, a sacred person and a king,) 
 His very minister who spied them 
 
 first 
 (Some say his queen) was forced to 
 
 speak or burst. 
 And is not mine, my friend, a sorer 
 
 case, 
 When every coxcomb perks them in 
 
 my face ? 
 
 You think this cruel ? take it for a 
 rule. 
 
 No creature smarts so little as a fool. 
 
 Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round 
 thee break. 
 
 Thou unconcerned canst hear the 
 mighty crack : 
 
 Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions 
 hurled. 
 
 Thou standest unshook am-id a burst- 
 ing world. 
 
 Who shames a scribbler ? break one 
 cobweb through. 
 
 He spins the slight, self-pleasing 
 thread anew: 
 
 Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain. 
 
 The creature's at his dirty work 
 again. 
 
 Throned in the centre of his thin de- 
 signs. 
 
 Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines! 
 
 Of all mad creatures, if the learned 
 
 are right. 
 It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. 
 A fool quite angry is quite innocent, 
 Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they 
 
 repent. 
 One dedicates in high heroic prose. 
 And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: 
 One from all Grub Street will my 
 
 fame defend. 
 And, more abusive, calls himself my 
 
 friend. 
 This prints my letters, that expects a 
 
 bribe, 
 And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, 
 
 subscribe." 
 
 There are, who to my person pay 
 
 their court: 
 I cough like Horace, and, though 
 
 lean, am short. 
 Ammon's great son one shoulder had 
 
 too high, 
 Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you 
 
 have an eye." — 
 Go on, obliging creatures, make me 
 
 see, 
 All that disgraced my betters, met in 
 
 me. 
 Say for my comfort, languishing in 
 
 bed, 
 "Just so immortal Maro held his 
 
 head:" 
 And when I die, be sure you let me 
 
 know 
 Great Homer died three thousand 
 
 years ago. 
 Why did 1 write ? what sin to me 
 
 imknown 
 Dipped me in ink, my parents', or 
 
 my own V 
 As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
 I lisped in numbers, for the numbers 
 
 came. 
 I left no calling for this idle trade, 
 No duty broke, no father disobeyed. 
 The muse but served to ease some 
 
 friend, not wife. 
 To help me through this long dis- 
 ease, my life : 
 To second, Aiibutiixot! thy art and 
 
 care. 
 And teach the being you preserved to 
 
 bear. 
 
 [From the Hope of the Lock.] 
 BELINDA. 
 
 And now, unveiled, the toilet 
 stands displayed, 
 
 Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
 
 First, robed in white the nymph in- 
 tent adores. 
 
 With head uncovered, the cosmetic 
 powers. 
 
 A. heavenly image in the glass ap- 
 pears. 
 
 To that she bends, to that her eyes 
 she rears ; 
 
768 
 
 POPE. 
 
 The inferior priestess, at her altar's 
 side. 
 
 Trembling begins the sacreil rites of 
 pride. 
 
 Unnumbered treasures ope at once, 
 and here 
 
 The various offerings of the world 
 appear ; 
 
 From each she nicely culls with curi- 
 ous toil, 
 
 And decks tl^e goddess with the glit- 
 tering spoil. 
 
 This casket India's glowing gems 
 unlocks, 
 
 And all Arabia breathes from yonder 
 box. 
 
 The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
 
 Transformed to combs, the speckled, 
 and the white. 
 
 Here files of pins extend their shining 
 rows. 
 
 Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet- 
 doux. 
 
 Now awful beauty puts on all its 
 ai ms : 
 
 The fair each moment rises in her 
 charms, 
 
 Repairs her smiles, awakens every 
 grace, 
 
 And calls forth all the wonders of 
 her face ; 
 
 Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
 
 And keener lightnings quicken in her 
 eyes. 
 
 The busy sylphs surround their dar- 
 ling care. 
 
 These set the head, and those divide 
 the hair, 
 
 Some fold the sleeve, whilst others 
 plait the gown; 
 
 And Betty's praised for labors not 
 her own. 
 
 Not with more glories, in the ethe- 
 real plain, 
 
 The sun first rises o'er the purpled 
 main. 
 
 Than, issuing forth, the rival of his 
 beams 
 
 Launched on the bosom of the silver 
 Thames. 
 
 Fair nymphs and well-dressed youths 
 around her shone. 
 
 But every eve was fixed on her alone. 
 
 On her white breast a sparkling cross 
 she wore, 
 
 Which Jews might kiss, and infidels 
 adore. 
 
 Her lively looks a sprightly mind dis- 
 close, 
 
 Quick as her eyes and as unfixed as 
 those : 
 
 Favors to none, to all she smiles ex- 
 tends ; 
 
 Oft she rejects, but never once of- 
 fends. 
 
 Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers 
 strike. 
 
 And like the sun, they shine on all 
 alike. 
 
 Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void 
 of pride. 
 
 Might hide her faults if belles had 
 faults to hide: 
 
 If to her share some female errors 
 fall. 
 
 Look on her face aud you'll forget 
 them all. 
 This nymph, to the destruction 
 of mankind, 
 
 Nourished two locks which graceful 
 hung behind 
 
 In equal curls, and well conspired to 
 deck 
 
 With shining ringlets the smooth 
 ivory neck. 
 
 Love in these labyrinths his slaves 
 detains 
 
 And mighty hearts are held in slen- 
 der chains. 
 
 With hairy springes we the birds be- 
 tray, 
 
 Slight lines of hair surprise the finny 
 prey. 
 
 Fair tresses man's imperial race en- 
 snare. 
 
 And beauty draws us with a single 
 hair. 
 
 [From the Rape of the Lock.'] 
 MERIT BEYOND BEAUTY. 
 
 Say, why are beauties praised and 
 honored most, 
 The wise man's passion, and the vain 
 man's toast ? 
 
Wliy decked with all that land and 
 » sea afford. 
 
 Why angels called, and angel-like 
 adored ? 
 
 Why round our coaches crowd the 
 white-gloved beaux, 
 
 AVhy bows the side-box from its in- 
 most rows ? 
 
 How vain are all these glories, all our 
 pains, 
 
 I'nless good sense preserve what 
 beauty gains: 
 
 That men may say, when we the 
 front-box grace. 
 
 Behold the first in virtue as in 
 face! 
 
 Oh! if to dance all night, and dress 
 all day. 
 
 Charmed the small-pox, or chased old 
 age away ; 
 
 Who would not scorn what house- 
 wife's cares produce. 
 
 Or who would learn one earthly thing 
 of use ? 
 
 To patch, nay, ogle, might become a 
 
 saint, 
 Nor could it sure be such a sin to 
 
 paint. |cay, 
 
 But since, alas I frail beauty must de- 
 Curled or uncurled, since locks will 
 
 turn to gray ; 
 Since, painted or not painted, all 
 
 shall fade, 
 And she who scorns a man must die 
 
 a maid; 
 What then remains but well our pow- 
 er to use. 
 And keep good-humor still whate'er 
 
 we lose ? 
 And trust me, dear! good-humor can 
 
 prevail. 
 When airs, and flights, and screams, 
 
 and scolding fail; 
 Beauties in vain their pretty eyes 
 
 may roll; 
 Charms strike the sight, but merit 
 
 wins the soul. 
 
 WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PRAED. 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 
 
 Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 
 Had been of being wise or witty. 
 
 Ere 1 had done with writing themes, 
 Or yawned o'er this infernal Chit- 
 
 ty,- 
 
 "i ears, years ago, while all my joys 
 AVere in my fowling-piece and filly; 
 
 In short, while I was yet a boy, 
 I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 
 
 I saw her at the country ball : 
 
 There, when the sounds of flute and 
 fiddle 
 Gave signal sweet in that old hall 
 Of hands across and down the mid- 
 dle. 
 Hers w^as the subtlest spell by far 
 Of all that sets young hearts ro- 
 mancing: 
 She was our queen, our rose, our 
 star ; 
 And then she danced, — O Heaven ! 
 her dancing. 
 
 Dark Avas her hair; her hand \\as 
 white; 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender; 
 Her eyes were full of liquid light; 
 I never saw a waist so slender; 
 Her every look, her every smile. 
 Shot right and left a score of ar- 
 rows : 
 I thought 't was Venus fiom her 
 isle. 
 And wondered \vhere she'd left her 
 sparrows. 
 
 She talked of politics or prayers. 
 Of Southey's prose or Words- 
 worth's sonnets. 
 Of danglers or of dancing bears. 
 
 Of battles or the last new bonnets: 
 By candle-light, at twelve o'clock. — 
 
 To me it mattered not a tittle, — 
 If those bright lips had quoted 
 Locke, 
 I might liave thought they nnn-- 
 mured Little. 
 
770 
 
 PRAED. 
 
 Through sunny May, through sultry 
 June, 
 I loved her with a love eternal; 
 I spoke her praises to the moon, 
 I wrote them to the ."Sunday Jour- 
 nal. 
 My mother laughed; 1 soon found 
 out 
 That ancient ladies have no feel- 
 ing: 
 My father frowned ; but how should 
 gout 
 See any happiness in kneeling ? 
 
 She was the daughter of a dean, — 
 
 Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; 
 She had one brother just thirteen. 
 
 Whose color was extremely hectic; 
 Her grandmother for many a year 
 
 Had fed the parish with her boun- 
 ty; 
 Her second cousin was a peer. 
 
 And lord-lieutenant of the county. 
 
 But titles and the three-per-cents, 
 
 And mortgages and great relations, 
 And India bonds, and tithes and 
 rents, 
 O, what are they to love's sensa- 
 tions ? 
 Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering 
 locks, — 
 Such wealth, such honors, Cupid 
 chooses; 
 He cares as little for the stocks 
 As Baron Rothschild for the 
 Muses. 
 
 She sketched; the vale, the wood, the 
 beach, 
 Grew lovelier from her pencil's 
 shading: 
 She botanized; I envied each 
 
 Young blossom in her boudoir 
 fading: 
 She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — 
 
 She made the Catilina jealous : 
 She touched the organ ; I could 
 stand 
 For hours and hours to blow the 
 bellows. 
 
 She kept an album too, at home, 
 Well filled with all an albnm's 
 glories, — 
 Paintings of butterflies and Rome, 
 Patterns for trinnnings, Persian 
 stories, 
 Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 
 Fierce odes to famine and to 
 slaughter. 
 And autographs of Prince Leboo, 
 And recipes for elder-water. 
 
 And she was flattered, worshipped, 
 bored ; 
 Her steps were watched, her dress 
 was noted ; 
 Her poodle-dog was quite adored ; 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
 She laughed, — and every heart was 
 glad. 
 As if the taxes were abolished; 
 She frowned, — and every look was 
 sad. 
 As if the opera were demolished. 
 
 She smiled on many just for 
 fun, — 
 I knew that there was nothing in 
 it; 
 I was the first, the only one, 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a 
 minute. 
 I knew it, for she told me so. 
 
 In phrase which Mas divinely 
 moulded ; 
 She wrote a charming hand, — and 
 oh. 
 How sweetly all her notes were 
 folded! 
 
 Our love was most like other loves. — 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver, 
 A rosebud and a pair of gloves. 
 And "Fly Not Yet'"' upon the 
 river ; 
 Some jealousy of some one's heir, 
 Some hopes of dying broken- 
 hearted ; 
 A miniature, a lock of hair, 
 
 The usual vom's, — and then we 
 parted. 
 
PRAED. 
 
 771 
 
 We parted : months ami years rolled 
 by: 
 We met again four summers after. 
 Our parting was all sob and sigh, 
 Our meeting was all mirth and 
 laughter ! 
 For in my heart's most secret cell 
 There had been many other lodg- 
 ers; 
 And she M'as not the ball-room's 
 belle, 
 But only Mrs. — Something — Rog- 
 ers I 
 
 QUINCE. 
 
 Neah a small village in the West, 
 Where many very Avorthy people 
 Eat, drink, play Avhist, and do their 
 best 
 To guard from evil, church and 
 steeple. 
 There stood — alas, it stands no 
 more I — 
 A tenement of brick and plaster. 
 Of which, for forty years and four. 
 My good friend Quince was lord 
 and master. 
 
 Welcome was he in hut and hall. 
 To maids and matrons, i^eers and 
 peasants; 
 He won the sympathies of all 
 
 By making puns and making pres- 
 ents. 
 Though all the parish was at strife. 
 He kept his counsel and his car- 
 riage. 
 And laughed, and loved a quiet life. 
 And shrunk from Chancery-suits 
 and marriage. 
 
 Sound were his claret and his head, 
 Warm were his double ale and 
 feelings ; 
 His partners at the whist-club said 
 That he was faultless in his deal- 
 ings. 
 He went to church but once a week. 
 Yet Dr. Poundtext always found 
 him 
 An upright man, who studied Greek, 
 And liked to see his friends around 
 him. 
 
 Asylums, hospitals, and schools 
 
 He used to swear were made to 
 cozen ; 
 All who subscribed to them were 
 fools — 
 
 And he subscribed to half a dozen. 
 It was his doctrine that the poor 
 
 Were always able, never willing; 
 And so the beggar at the door 
 
 Had first abuse, and then a shilling. 
 
 Some public principles he had. 
 
 But was no flatterer nor fretter; 
 He rapped his box when things were 
 bad. 
 And said: '' I cannot make them 
 better." 
 And much he loathed the imtriofs 
 snort. 
 And much he scorned the place- 
 man's snutfle, 
 And cut the fiercest quarrels short 
 With, "Patience, gentlemen, and 
 shuffle!" 
 
 For full ten years his pointer. 
 Speed, 
 Had couched beneath his masters 
 table, 
 For twice ten years his old white 
 steed 
 Had fattened in his master's stable. 
 Old Quince averred upon his troth 
 They were the ugliest beasts in 
 Devon ; 
 And none knew why he fed them 
 both 
 With his own hands, six days in 
 seven. 
 
 Whene'er they heard his ring or 
 knock. 
 Quicker than thought the village 
 slatterns 
 Flung down the novel, smoothed the 
 frock. 
 And took up Mrs. Glasse or pat- 
 terns. 
 Alice was studying baker's bills; 
 Louisa looked the queen of knit- 
 ters; 
 Jane happened to be hemming frills; 
 And Nell by chance was making 
 fritters. 
 
PRIOR. 
 
 But all was vain. And while decay 
 Came like a tranquil moonlight 
 o'er him, 
 And found him gouty still and gay, 
 With no fair nurse to bless or bore 
 him; 
 His rugged smile and easy chair. 
 
 His dread of matrimonial lectures, 
 His wig, his stick, his powdered hair 
 Were themes for very grave con jec- 
 tures. 
 
 Some sages thought the stars above 
 Had crazed him with excess of 
 knowledge ; 
 Some heard he had been crossed in 
 love 
 Before he came away from college: 
 Some darkly hinted that His Grace 
 Did nothing, great or small, with- 
 out him; 
 Some whispered, with a solemn face. 
 That there was something odd 
 about him. 
 
 I foiuid him at threescore and ten 
 
 A single man, but bent quite dou- 
 ble; 
 Sickness was coming on him then 
 
 To take him from a world of trou- 
 ble. 
 He prosed of sliding down the hill, 
 
 Discovered he grew older daily; 
 One frosty day he made his will. 
 
 The next he sent for Dr. Baillie. 
 
 And so he lived, and so he died; 
 
 When last I sat beside his pillow. 
 He shook my hand: "Ah me!" he 
 cried, 
 
 " Penelope nuist wear the willow! 
 Tell her I hugged her rosy chain 
 
 While life was flickering in the 
 socket. 
 And say that when I call again 
 
 I'll bring a license in my pocket. 
 
 " I've left my house and grounds to 
 Fag- 
 I hope his master's shoes will suit 
 him! — 
 And I' ve bequeathed to you my 
 nag. 
 To feed him for my sake, or shoot 
 him. 
 The vicar's wife will take old Fox, 
 She'll find him an unconnnon 
 mouser; 
 And let her husband have my box. 
 My Bible and my Assmanshauser, 
 
 " Whether I ought to die or not 
 
 My doctors cannot quite determine ; 
 It's only clear that I shall rot. 
 
 And be, like Priam, food for ver- 
 min. 
 My debts are paid. But Nature's 
 debt 
 
 Almost escaped my recollection ! 
 Tom, we shall meet again; and yet 
 
 I cannot leave you my direction ! " 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 FOR MY OWN MONUMEXT. 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of 
 
 prevention, 
 
 Matt, alive and in health, of his 
 
 tombstone took care: 
 
 For delays are imsafe, and his pious 
 
 intention (heir. 
 
 May haply be never fulfilled by his 
 
 Then take Matt's word for it, the 
 sculptor is paid , 
 That the figure is fine, pray believe 
 your own eye; 
 
 Yet credit but lightly what more may 
 be said. 
 For we flatter ourselves, and teach 
 marble to lie. 
 
 Yet counting so far as to fifty his 
 years. 
 His virtues and vices were as other 
 men's are; 
 High hopes he conceived, and he 
 smothered great fears. 
 In a life party-colored, half pleas- 
 lu'e, half care. 
 
Nor to business a drudge, nor to fac- 
 tion a slave, 
 lie strove to make int'rest and 
 freedom agree; 
 In public employments industrious 
 and grave, 
 And alone with his friends, Lord ! 
 how merry was he. 
 
 Now in equipage stately, now humbly 
 on foot, 
 Both fortunes he tried, but to 
 neither would trust; 
 And whirled in the round as the 
 wheel tm-ned about, 
 He found riches had wings, and 
 knew man was but dust. 
 
 This verse, little polished, though 
 mighty sincere. 
 Sets neither his titles nor merits to 
 view; 
 It says that his relics collected lie 
 here, 
 And no mortal yet knows if this 
 may be true. 
 
 Fierce robbers there are that infest 
 the highway, 
 So Matt may be killed, and his 
 bones never found; 
 False witness at court, and fierce tem- 
 pests at sea. 
 So Matt may yet chance to be 
 hanged or be drowned. 
 
 If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, 
 fly in air, 
 To Fate we must yield, and the 
 thing is the same; 
 And if passing thou giv'st him a 
 smile or a tear, 
 He cares not — yet, prithee, be kind 
 to his fame. 
 
 AX EPITAPH. 
 
 Interukd beneath this marble stone 
 Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. 
 While rolling threescore years and one 
 Did round this globe their courses run ; 
 If human things went ill or well. 
 If changing empires rose or fell, 
 
 The morning past, the evening came. 
 
 And found this couple j List the same. 
 
 They walked and ate, good folks: 
 What then ? 
 
 Why, then they walked and ate again ; 
 
 They soundly slept the night away; 
 
 They did just nothing all the day. 
 
 Nor sister either had nor brother; 
 
 They seemed just tallied for each 
 other. 
 
 Their moral and economy 
 
 Most perfectly they made agree ; 
 
 Each virtue kept its proper bound. 
 
 Nor trespassed on the other's ground. 
 
 Nor fame nor censure they regarded; 
 
 They neither punished nor rewarded. 
 
 He cared not what the footman did; 
 
 Her maids she neither i:>raised nor 
 chid : 
 
 So every servant took his course, 
 
 And, bad at first, they all grew Avorse, 
 
 Slothful disorder tilled his stable. 
 
 And sluttish plenty decked her table. 
 
 Their beer was strong, their wine was 
 port ; 
 
 Their meal was large, their grace was 
 short. 
 
 They gave the poor the remnant meat. 
 
 Just when it grew not fit to eat. 
 
 They paid the church and parish rate, 
 
 And took, but read not, the receipt; 
 
 For which they claimed their Sun- 
 day's due. 
 
 Of sknnbering in an upper pew. 
 
 No man's defects sought they to 
 know, 
 
 So never made themselves a foe. 
 
 No man's good deeds did they com- 
 mend. 
 
 So never raised themselves a friend. 
 
 Nor cherished they relations poor. 
 
 That might decrease their present 
 store ; 
 
 Nor bai'u nor house did they repair. 
 
 That might oblige their future heir. 
 
 They neither added nor confounded ; 
 
 They neither wanted nor abounded. 
 
 Nor tear nor smile did they employ 
 
 At news of grief or public joy. 
 
 When bells were rung and bonfires 
 made 
 
 If asked, they ne'er denied their aid; 
 
 Their jug was to the ringers carried, 
 
 AVhoever either died or married. 
 
774 
 
 PRIOR. 
 
 Their billet at the fire was found, 
 Whoever was deposed or crowned. 
 Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor 
 
 wise. 
 They Avould not learn, nor could 
 
 advise ; 
 AVithout love, hatred, joy, or fear, 
 Tliey led — a kind of — as it Mere; 
 Nor wislied, nor cared, nor laughed, 
 
 nor cried, 
 And so they lived, and so they died. 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE THIEF AND THE 
 COnDELIER." 
 
 '' What frightens you thus, my good 
 
 son '?" says the i)riest; 
 " You murdered, are sorry, and have 
 
 been confessed." 
 "O fatlier! my sorrow will scarce 
 
 save my bacon ; 
 For 'twas not that I murdered, but 
 
 that I was taken." 
 
 " Pooh, prithee ne'er trouble thy head 
 
 with such fancies ; 
 Rely on the aid you shall have from 
 
 St. Francis; 
 If the money you promised be brought 
 
 to the chest. 
 You have only to die; let the church 
 
 do the rest." 
 
 " And what will folks say, if they see 
 
 you afraid ? 
 It reflects upon me, as I knew not my 
 
 trade. 
 Courage, friend, for to-day is your 
 
 period of sorrow; 
 And things will go better, believe me, 
 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow!" our hero replied in a 
 fright; 
 
 "He that's hanged before noon, 
 ought to think of to-night." 
 
 " Tell your beads," quoth the priest, 
 " and be fairly trussed up. 
 
 For you surely to-night shall in Para- 
 dise sup." 
 
 " Alas ! " quoth the 'squire, " howe'er 
 
 sumptuous the treat, 
 Parbleu ! I shall have little stomach 
 
 to eat ; 
 I should therefore esteem it great 
 
 favor and grace. 
 Would you be so kind as to go in my 
 
 place." 
 
 "That I would," quoth the father, 
 
 ' ' and thank you to boot ; 
 But our actions, you know, with our 
 
 duty must suit; 
 The feast I proposed to you, I cannot 
 
 taste, 
 For this night, by our order, is marked 
 
 for a fast." 
 
 [From Alma.] 
 
 RICHARD'S THEORY OF THE MIND. 
 
 I SAY, whatever you maintain 
 Of Alma in the heart or brain. 
 The plainest man alive may tell ye 
 Her seat of empire is the belly. 
 From hence she sends out those sup- 
 plies. 
 Which make us either stout or 
 
 wise : 
 Your stomach makes the fabric roll 
 Just as the bias rules the bowl. 
 The great Achilles might employ 
 The strength designed to ruin Troy; 
 He dined on lion's marrow, spread 
 On toasts of ammunition bread ; 
 But, by his mother sent away 
 Amongst the Thracian ghis to play, 
 Effeminate he sat and (fuiet — 
 Strange product of a cheese-cake 
 
 diet! 
 Ol)serve the various operations 
 Of food and drink in several nations. 
 Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel 
 Upon the strength of Avater gruel ? 
 But who shall stand his rage or force 
 If first he rides, then eats iiis horse? 
 Salads, and eggs, and lighter fare 
 Tune the Italian spark's guitar: 
 And, if I take Dan Congreve right, 
 Pudding and beef make Bi-itons 
 fight. 
 
John Godfrey Saxe. 
 
 irOlV CYRUS LAID THE CABLE. 
 
 Come, listen all unto my song 
 
 It is no silly fable ; 
 'Tis all about the mighty cord 
 
 They call the Atlantic Cable. 
 
 Bold Cyrus Field, he said, says he, 
 
 I have a pretty notion 
 That 1 can run a telegraph 
 
 Across the Atlantic Ocean. 
 
 Then all the people laughed, and said, 
 They'd like to see him do it; 
 
 He might get half-seas over, but 
 He never could get through it : 
 
 To carry out his foolish plan 
 
 He never would be able; 
 He might as well go hang himself 
 
 With his Atlantic Cable. 
 
 But Cyrus was a valiant man, 
 
 A fellow of decision: 
 And heeded not their mocking words, 
 
 Their laughter and derision. 
 
 Twice did his bravest efforts fail. 
 And yet his mind was stable; 
 
 He wa'n't the man to break his heart 
 Because he broke his cable. 
 
 '•Once more, my gallant boys!" he 
 cried ; 
 '■'Three times! —you know the 
 fable, — 
 (I'll make it thirty,'" muttered he, 
 "But I will lay the cable!") 
 
 Once more they tried, — hurrah ! 
 hurrah ! 
 
 What means this great commotion? 
 The Lord be praised! the cable's laid 
 
 Across the Atlantic Ocean! 
 
 Loud rang the bells, — for flashing 
 through 
 
 Six hundred leagues of water, 
 Old Mother England's Ix-nison 
 
 ISalutes her eldest daughter! 
 
 O'er all the land the tidings speed. 
 And soon, in every nation. 
 
 They'll hear aljout the cable with 
 Profoundest admiration ! 
 
 Xow long live President and Queen; 
 
 And long live gallant Cyrus; 
 And may his. courage, faith, and zeal 
 
 With euudation fire us ; 
 
 And may we honor evermore 
 The manly, bold, and stable ; 
 
 And tell our sons, to make them 
 brave. 
 How Cyrus laid the cable ! 
 
 THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN. 
 I LONG have been puzzled to guess, 
 
 And so I have frequently said. 
 What the reason could really be 
 
 That I never have happened to 
 wed ; 
 But now it is perfectly clear, 
 
 I am under a natural ban ; 
 The girls are already assigned, — 
 
 And I'm a superfluous man ! 
 
 Those clever statistical chaps 
 
 Declare the numerical run 
 Of women and men in the world, 
 
 Is twenty to twenty-and-one ; 
 And hence in the pairing, you see, 
 
 Since wooing and wedding began. 
 For every connubial score, 
 
 They've got a superfluous man! 
 
 By twenties and twenties they go. 
 
 And giddily rush to their fate. 
 For none of the number, of course. 
 
 Can fail of a conjugal mate ; 
 But while they are yielding in scores 
 
 To Nature's inflexible plan. 
 There's never a woman for me, — 
 
 For I'm a superfluous man! 
 
 It isn't that I am a churl. 
 To solitude over-inclined; 
 
SAXE. 
 
 It isn't that I am at fault 
 
 In morals or manners or mind : 
 
 Then wluit is the reason, you ask, 
 Tm still with the bachelor-clan '? 
 
 I merely w as numbered amiss, — 
 And I'm a supertluous man! 
 
 It isn't that I am in want 
 
 Of personal beauty or grace, 
 For many a man with a wife 
 
 Is uglier far in the face; 
 Indeed, among elegant men 
 
 I fancy myself in tlie van ; 
 But what is the value of that. 
 
 When I'm a superfluous man ? 
 
 Although I am fond of the girls, 
 
 For aught I could ever discern 
 The tender emotion I feel 
 
 Is one that they never return; 
 'Tis idle to quarrel with fate! 
 
 For, struggle as hard as I can, 
 They're mated already, you know, — 
 
 And I'm a superfluous man! 
 
 No wonder I grumble at times. 
 
 With women so pretty and plenty, 
 To know that I never was born 
 
 To figure as one of the twenty ; 
 But yet, when the avei-age lot 
 
 With critical vision I scan, 
 I think it may be for tlie best 
 
 That I'm a superfluous man! 
 
 r/IE PUZZLED CEXSUS-TAKER. 
 
 " Got any boys ? " the Marshal said 
 To a lady from over the Rhine; 
 
 And the lady shook her flaxen head, 
 And civilly answered "iVe/u /* 
 
 " Got any girls ?" the Marshal said 
 To the lady from over the Khine; 
 
 And again the lady shook her head, 
 Ami civilly answered, "A^'eia.'" 
 
 '• But some are dead ?" the Marshal 
 said. 
 
 To the lady from over the Rhine; 
 Aud again tlie lady shook her head. 
 
 And civilly answered, ^'Nein ! " 
 
 • .V('(», pronounced iiine, is the German 
 tor "No." 
 
 '•■ Husband, of course ? " the Marshal 
 said 
 
 To the lady from over the Rhine ; 
 And again she shook her flaxen head. 
 
 And civilly answered, "iVe/u .' " 
 
 " The devil you have!'' the Marshal 
 said 
 
 To the lady from over the Rhine : 
 And again she shook her flaxen head. 
 
 And civilly answered, ''^Ve/H .' " 
 
 " Now what do you mean by shaking 
 your head, 
 And always answering, 'Nine' ?" 
 '■'■ Icli kann nicht Jiiu/llsch."^ civilly 
 said 
 The lady from over the Rhine. 
 
 SOJ^G OF SARATOGA. 
 
 " Pray, what do they do at the 
 Springs ?" 
 
 The question is easy to ask; 
 But to answer it fully, my dear, 
 
 Were rather a serious task. 
 And yet, in a bantering way. 
 
 As the magpie or mocking-bird 
 sings, 
 I'll venture a bit of a song 
 
 To tell what they do at the Springs ! 
 
 Iin})rimis, my darling, they drink 
 
 The waters so sparkling and clear; 
 Though the flavor is none of the best, 
 
 And the odor exceedingly queer; 
 But the fluid is mingled, you know. 
 
 With wholesome medicinal things, 
 So they drink, and they drink, and 
 they drink, — 
 
 And that's what they do at the 
 Springs ! 
 
 Then with appetites keen as a knife. 
 
 They hasten to l)reakfast or dine 
 (The latter precisely at three. 
 
 The former from seven till nine. ) 
 Ye gods! what a rustle and rush 
 When the eloquent dimier-bell 
 rings ! • 
 
 Then they eat, and they eat, and they 
 eat, — 
 And that's what they do at the 
 Springs ! 
 
Now they stroll in the beautiful 
 walks. 
 Or loll in the shade of the trees : 
 Where many a whisper is heard 
 
 That never is told by the breeze; 
 And hands are counningled with 
 hands, 
 Regardless of conjugal rings; 
 And they flirt, and they-flirt, and they 
 flirt,— 
 And that's what they do at the 
 Springs ! 
 
 The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, 
 
 And nuisic is shrieking away; 
 Terpsichore governs the hour. 
 
 And Fashion was never so gay ! 
 An arm round a tapering waist, 
 
 How closely and fondly it clings! 
 So they waltz, and they waltz, and 
 they waltz, — 
 
 And that's what they do at the 
 Springs ! 
 
 In short — as it goes in the world — 
 They eat, and they drink, and they 
 sleep ; 
 They talk, and they walk, and they 
 woo ; 
 They sigh, and they laugh, and 
 they \\eep ; 
 They read, and they ride, and they 
 dance; 
 (With other unspeakable things;) 
 They pray, and they play, and they 
 
 pay, — 
 
 And that's what they do at the 
 Springs ! 
 
 EARL Y niSlNG. 
 
 " God bless the man who first in- 
 vented sleep ' ' 
 So Sancho Panza said, and so say I: 
 
 And bless him, also, that he didn't 
 keej) 
 Hi% great discovery to himself; nor 
 try 
 
 To make it — as the lucky fellow 
 might — 
 
 A close monopoly by patent-right! 
 
 Yes ; bless the man who first invented 
 
 sleep 
 (I really can't avoid the iteration); 
 But blast the man with curses loud 
 
 and deep, 
 Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, 
 
 or station. 
 Who first invented, and went round 
 
 advising, 
 That artificial cut-off, — Early Risiug. 
 
 "Rise with the lark, and with the 
 
 lark to bed," 
 Observes some solemn, sentimental 
 
 owl ; 
 Maxims like these are very cheaply 
 
 said; 
 But, ere you make yourself a fool 
 
 or fowl. 
 Pray just inquire about his rise anil 
 
 fall. 
 And whether larks have any beds 
 
 at all ! 
 
 The time for honest folks to be abed 
 
 Is in the morning, if I reason right: 
 
 And he who cannot keep his precious 
 
 heail 
 
 Upon the pillow till it's fairly light. 
 
 And so enjoy his forty morning 
 
 winks. 
 Is up to knavery ; or else — he drinks. 
 
 Thomson, who sang about the " Sea- 
 sons," said 
 It was a glorious thing to rist in 
 season ; 
 
 But then he said it — lying — in his 
 bed, 
 At ten o'clock, A. M., — the very 
 reason 
 
 He wrote so charmingly. The simple 
 fact is. 
 
 His preaching wasn't sanctioned by 
 his practice. 
 
 'Tis, doubtless, Mell to be sometimes 
 awake, — 
 Awake to duty, and awake to 
 truth, — 
 But when, alas! a nice review we 
 take 
 Of our best deeds and days, we 
 find, in sooth. 
 
778 
 
 SAXE. 
 
 The hours that leave the slightest 
 
 cause to weep 
 Are those we passed in childhood or 
 
 asleep ! 
 
 ' Tis beautiful to leave the world 
 
 awhile 
 For the soft visions of the gentle 
 
 night; 
 And free, at last, from mortal care or 
 
 guile. 
 To live as only in the angels' sight, 
 In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut 
 
 in, 
 Where, at the worst, we only dream 
 
 of sin! 
 
 So let us sleep, and give the Maker 
 pi'aise. 
 I like the lad, who, when his father 
 thought 
 
 To clip his morning nap by hack- 
 neyed phrase 
 Of vagrant worm by early songster 
 caught. 
 
 Cried, '' Served him right! — it's not 
 at all surprising; 
 
 The worm was punished, sir, for 
 early rising! " 
 
 ABOUT HUSBANDS. 
 
 "A jnan is, in general, better pleased 
 when he has a good dinner upon his table, 
 than when his wife speaks Greek."— Sam. 
 Joiixsox. 
 
 Johnson was right. I don't agree to 
 all 
 The solenm dogmas of the rough 
 old stager; 
 But very much approve what one 
 may call 
 The minor morals of the "Ursa 
 Major." 
 
 Johnson was right. Although some 
 men adore 
 Wisdom in woman, and with learn- 
 ing cram her, 
 There isn't one in ten but thinks far 
 more 
 Of his own grub than of his 
 spouse's grammar. 
 
 I know it is the greatest shame in life ; 
 But who among them (save, per- 
 haps, myself) 
 Returning hungry home, but asks his 
 wife 
 What beef — not books — she has 
 upon the shelf ? 
 
 Though Greelj and I^atin l)e the lady's 
 boast, 
 They're little valued by her loving 
 mate; 
 The kind of tongue that husbands 
 relish most 
 Is modern, boiled, and served upon 
 a plate. 
 
 Or if, as fond ambition may com- 
 mand. 
 Some home-made verse the happy 
 matron show him. 
 What mortal spouse but from her 
 dainty hand 
 Woukl sooner see a pudding than a 
 poem ? 
 
 Young lady, — deep in love with Tom 
 or Harry, — 
 'Tis sad to tell you such a tale as 
 this ; 
 But here's the moral of it: Do not 
 marry; 
 Or, marrying, take your lover as 
 he is, — 
 
 A very man, — with something of the 
 brute 
 (Unless he prove a sentimental 
 noddy). 
 With passions strong and appetite to 
 boot, 
 A thirsty soul within a hungry 
 bodv. 
 
 Avery man, — not one of nature's 
 clods, — 
 With hiunan failings, whether saint 
 or sinner; • 
 
 Endowed, perhaps, with genius from 
 the gods, 
 But apt to take his temper from his 
 dinner. 
 
SAXE. 
 
 779 
 
 UAILROAD RHYME. 
 
 .SiNGiXG through the forests, 
 
 Kattling over ridges; 
 Shooting under arches, 
 
 liumbUng over bridges; 
 Wliizzing through the mountains, 
 
 Buzzing o'er the vale, — 
 Bless me! this is pleasant, 
 
 Hiding on the rail ! 
 
 Men of different " stations " 
 
 In the eye' of fame. 
 Here are very quickly 
 
 Coming to the same; 
 High and lowly people, 
 
 Birds of every feather, 
 On a common level. 
 
 Travelling together. 
 
 Gentleman in shorts, 
 
 Looming very tall; 
 Gentleman at large 
 
 Talking very small; 
 Gentleman in tights. 
 
 With a loose-ish mien; 
 Gentleman in gray, 
 
 Looking rather green; 
 
 Gentleman quite old. 
 
 Asking for the news; 
 Gentleman in black, 
 
 In a fit of blues ; 
 Gentleman in claret. 
 
 Sober as a vicar; 
 Gentleman in t^veed, 
 
 Dreadfully in liquor! 
 
 Stranger on the right 
 
 Looking very sunny, 
 Obviotisly reading 
 
 Something rather funny. 
 Xow the smiles are thicker, — 
 
 Wonder Mhat they mean ! 
 Faith, he's got the Knicker- 
 
 Bocker Magazine! 
 
 Stranger on the left 
 
 Closing up his peepers; 
 Xow he snores amain, 
 
 Like the Seven Sleepers; 
 At his feet a volume 
 
 Gives the explanation. 
 How the man grew stupid 
 
 From "Association." 
 
 Ancient maiden lady 
 
 Anxiously remarks, 
 That there nuist be peril 
 
 'Mong so many sparks; 
 Eoguish-looking fellow, 
 
 Turning to the stranger, 
 Says it's his opinion 
 
 She is out of danger! 
 
 Woman with her baby, 
 
 Sitting vis-a-vis; 
 Baby keeps a-squalllng. 
 
 Woman looks at me ; 
 Asks about the distance. 
 
 Says it's tiresome talking, 
 Xoises of the cars 
 
 Are so very shocking! 
 
 Market-woman, careful 
 
 Of the precious casket, 
 Knowing eggs are eggs. 
 
 Tiglitly holds her basket , 
 Feeling that a smash. 
 
 If it came, would surely 
 Send her eggs to pot. 
 
 Bather prematurely. 
 
 Singing through the forests. 
 
 Battling over ridges; 
 Shooting under arches, 
 
 Bumbling over bridges ; 
 Whizzing through the mountains. 
 
 Buzzing o'er the vale, — 
 Bless me! this is pleasant, 
 
 Biding on the rail! 
 
 THE FAMILY MAX. 
 
 I ONCE was a jolly young beau. 
 And knew how to pick up a fan. 
 
 But I've done with all that, you must 
 know. 
 For now I'm a family man ! 
 
 When a partner I ventured to take, 
 The ladies all favored the plan ; 
 
 They owned I was certain to make 
 " Such an excellent faanily man! " 
 
 If I travel by land or by water, 
 I have charge of some Susan or 
 Ann; 
 
Mrs. Brown is so sure that her daugh- j Young people must have an exem- 
 
 ter 
 
 Is safe with a family man ! 
 
 plar. 
 And I am a family man ! 
 
 The trunks and tlie bandboxes round The club-men I meet in the city 
 
 'em All treat me as well as they can, 
 
 ^Vlthsomothing like horror I scan, | And only exclaim, " What a pity 
 
 ]5ut thouii'li 1 may mutter '"Confound 
 'em!'' 
 I smile — like a family man ! 
 
 I once was as gay as a templar, 
 But levity's now under ban; 
 
 Poor Tom is a family man ! ' ' 
 
 I own I am getting quite pensive ; 
 
 Ten cluldren, from David to Dan, 
 Is a family rather extensive ; 
 
 But then — I'm a family man ! 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 He saw in sight of liis house. 
 
 At dusk, as stories tell, 
 A Avoman picking mulberries, 
 
 And he liked her looks riglit well. 
 
 He struggled out of his chair, 
 And began to beclvon and call; 
 
 But slie went on picking nuilberries, 
 Xor looked at him at all. 
 
 " If Famine should follow you. 
 He would find the harvest in; 
 
 You think yourself and your mulber- 
 ries 
 Too good for a mandarin. 
 
 I have yellow gold in my sleeve. " 
 But she answered, sharp and bold, 
 
 " Be off! Let me pick my mulberries, 
 I am bought witli no man's gold. " 
 
 Slie scratched his face with her nails, 
 Till he turned and fled for life, 
 
 For the lady picking nudberries 
 Was his true and virtuous wife ! 
 
 TOO OLD FOI! KISSES. 
 
 My uncle Pliilip, hale old man, 
 Has children by the dozen; 
 
 Tom, Ned, and jack, and Kate and 
 Ann — 
 How many call me '"Cousin '?'' 
 
 Good boys and girls, the best was 
 Bess, 
 
 I bore her on my shoulder; 
 A little bud of loveliness 
 
 That never should grow older! 
 Her eyes had such a pleading M"ay. 
 
 They seemed to say, '" Don't strike 
 me. " 
 Then, growing bold another day, 
 
 '" I mean to make you like me. " 
 I liked my cousin, early, late. 
 
 Who liked not little misses: 
 She used to meet me at the gate, 
 
 Just old enough for kisses ! 
 
 This was, I think, three years ago. 
 
 Before I went to college : 
 I learned but one thing — liow to 
 row, 
 
 A healthy sort of knowledge. 
 When I was plucked, (we won the 
 race, ) 
 
 And all was at an end there, 
 I thought of Uncle Philip's place, 
 
 And every country friend there. 
 My cousin met me at the gate. 
 
 She looked five, ten years older, 
 A tall young woman, still, sedate, 
 
 With manners coyer, colder. 
 She gave her hand with stately 
 pride. 
 
 " Why, what a greeting this is! 
 You used to kiss me." She replied, 
 
 '" I am too old for kisses." 
 
I loved — I loved my Cousin Bess, 
 
 She's always in my mind now; 
 A full-blown bud of loveliness. 
 
 The rose of womankind now ! 
 She must have suitors ; old and young 
 
 Must bow their heads before her; 
 Vows must be made, and songs be 
 sung 
 
 By many a mad adorer. 
 But I must win her: she must give 
 
 To me her youth and beauty ; 
 And I — to love her while I live 
 
 Will be my happy duty. 
 For she will love me soon or late, 
 
 And be my bliss of blisses. 
 Will come to meet me at the gate, 
 
 Nor be too old for kisses '■ 
 
 THE MARRIAGE KNOT. 
 
 I KNOW a bright and beauteous May, 
 
 Who knows I love her well ; 
 But if she loves, or will some day, 
 
 I cannot make her tell. 
 She sings the songs I write for her. 
 
 Of tender hearts betrayed ; 
 But not the one that I prefer. 
 
 About a country maid. 
 The hour when I its burden hear 
 
 Will never be forgot : 
 " O stay not long, but come, my dear, 
 
 And knit our marriage knot! " 
 
 It is about a country maid — 
 
 I see her in my mind; 
 She is not of her love afraid, 
 
 And cannot be unkind. 
 
 She knits, and sings with many a 
 sigh, 
 
 And, as her needles glide. 
 She wishes, and she wonders why 
 
 He is not at her side. 
 " He promised he would meet me 
 here, 
 
 Upon this very spot : 
 O stay not long, but come, my dear. 
 
 And knit our marriage knot! " 
 
 My lady will not sing the song; 
 
 " Wliy not ? " I say. And she. 
 Tossing her head, "it is too long." 
 
 Andl, " Too short, may be." 
 She has her little wilful ways, 
 
 But I persist, and then, 
 " It is not maidenly," she says, 
 
 " For maids to sigh for men." 
 ''But men must sigh for maids, I 
 fear, 
 
 I know it is my lot. 
 Until you whisper, ' Come, my dear, 
 
 And knit our marriage knot!' " 
 
 Why is my little one so coy ? 
 
 Why does she use me so '? 
 I am no fond and foolish boy 
 
 To lightly come and go. 
 A man'who loves, I know my heart. 
 
 And will know hers ere long. 
 For, certes, I will not depart 
 
 Until she sings my song. 
 She learned it all, as you shall hear. 
 
 No word has she forgot. 
 "Begin, my dearest." "Come, my 
 dear. 
 
 And knit our marriage knot ! " 
 
 Jonathan Swift. 
 
 FROM 
 
 VERSE ff OX HIS OU'.V 
 DEATHS 
 
 Some great misfortune to portend 
 No enemy can match a friend. 
 With all the kindness they profess. 
 The merit of a lucky guess — 
 When daily how-d'ye's come of 
 
 course, 
 And servants answer: "Worse and 
 
 worse!" — 
 
 Would please them better than to tell. 
 That, God be praised ! thedean is well. 
 Then he, who prophesied the best. 
 Approves his foresight to the rest: 
 ' ' You know I always feared the worst. 
 And often told you so at first." 
 He'd rather choose that I should die, 
 Than his prediction i)rove a lie. 
 Not one foretells I shall recover. 
 But all agree to give me over. 
 
THACKERAY 
 
 Yet, should some neighbor feel a 
 pain 
 Just in the parts where I complain, 
 How many a message would he send? 
 What hearty prayers that I should 
 
 mend ! 
 Inquire what regimen I kept ? 
 What gave me ease, and hoAV I slept ? 
 And more lament when I was dead. 
 Than all the snivellers round my bed. 
 
 My good companions, never fear; 
 For, though you may mistake a year, 
 Tliough your prognostics run too fast. 
 They must be verified at last. 
 
 Behold the fatal day arrive ! 
 How is the dean ? he's just alive. 
 Now the departing prayer is read ; 
 He hardly breathes. The dean is 
 dead. 
 
 Before the passing-bell begun, 
 
 Tlie news through half the town has 
 
 run; 
 "Oh! may we all for death pre- 
 pare! 
 What has he left ? and who's the 
 
 heir?" 
 I know no more than -what the 
 
 news is; 
 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses. 
 "To public uses! there's a wliim! 
 What had the public done for him ? 
 Mere envy, avarice, and pride : 
 He gave it all — Imt first lie died. 
 ; And had the dean in all the nation 
 i No worthy friend, no poor rela- 
 j tion ? 
 
 So ready to do strangers good, 
 ' Forgetting his own flesh and blood ! " 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 
 
 A STREET there is in Paris famous. 
 For wluch no rhyme our language 
 yields. 
 Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its 
 name is — 
 The New Street of the Little Fields ; 
 And there's an inn, not rich and 
 splendid. 
 But still in comfortable case — 
 The which in youth I oft attended, 
 To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 
 
 A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
 Or hotchpotcli of all sorts of fishes. 
 
 That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
 Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, 
 saffern. 
 
 Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and 
 dace; 
 All tliese you eat at Terre's tavern. 
 
 In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is; 
 
 And true philosophers, methinks. 
 Who love all sorts of natural beauties. 
 
 Should love good victuals and good 
 drinks. 
 
 And Cordelier or Benedictine 
 Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. 
 
 Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 
 AVhich served him up a Bouilla- 
 baisse. 
 
 I wonder if the house still there is ? 
 
 Yes, here the lamp is as before; 
 The smiling, red-cheeked ecaillere is 
 
 Still opening oysters at the door. 
 Is Terre still alive and able ? 
 
 I recollect his droll grimace ; 
 He'd come and smile before your 
 table. 
 
 And hoped you liked your Bouilla- 
 baisse. 
 
 We enter; nothing's changed or older. 
 " How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, 
 pray?" 
 The waiter stares and slirugs his 
 shoulder; — 
 "Monsieur is dead this many a 
 day." 
 " It is the lot of saint and sinner. 
 
 So honest Terre's run his race! " 
 " What will Monsieur require for din- 
 ner ?'" 
 "Say, do you still cook Bouilla- 
 baisse ?" 
 
"Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's 
 answer; 
 " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " 
 "Tell me a good one." "That I 
 can, sir; 
 The Chambertin with yellow seal. ' 
 " So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 
 
 My old accustomed corner-place; 
 " He's done with feasting and with 
 drinking, 
 With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 
 
 My old accustomed corner here is — 
 
 The table still is in the nook; 
 Ah ! vanished many a busy year is, 
 
 This well-known chair since last I 
 took. 
 When first I saw ye, Cava LuogM, 
 
 I'd scarce a beard upon my face. 
 And now a grizzled grim old fogy, 
 
 I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. ' 
 
 Where are you, old companions trusty 
 
 Of early days, here met to dine ? 
 Come, M'aiter! quick, a tlagon crusty, 
 I'll pledge them in the good old 
 wine. 
 The kind old voices and old faces 
 My memory can quick retrace ; 
 Around the board they take their 
 l^laces. 
 And share the wine and Bouilla- 
 baisse. 
 
 There's Jack has made a wondrous 
 marriage ; 
 There's laughing Tom is laiighing 
 
 yet; 
 
 There's brave Augustus drives his 
 carriage ; 
 There's poor old Fred in the Ga- 
 zette ; 
 On James's head the grass is growing: 
 Good Lord ! the world has wagged 
 apace 
 Since here we set the claret flowing. 
 And drank, and ate the Bouilla- 
 baisse. 
 
 Ah me ! how quick the days are flit- 
 ting ! 
 
 I mind me of a time that's gone. 
 When here I'd sit as now I'm sitting. 
 
 In this same place — but not alone. 
 
 A fair young form was nestled near 
 me, 
 A dear, dear face looked fondly up. 
 And sweetly spoke and smiled to 
 cheer me. 
 — There' s no one now to share my 
 cup. 
 
 I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 
 Come, fill it, and have done with 
 rhymes ; 
 Fill up the lonely glass and drain it 
 
 In memory of dear old times. 
 Welcome the wine, whatever the seal 
 is; 
 And sit you down and say your 
 grace 
 With thankful heart whate'er the 
 meal is. 
 Here comes the smoking Bouilla- 
 baisse I 
 
 SORROWS OF WERTHER. 
 
 Weether had a love for Charlotte 
 Such as words could never utter; 
 
 Would you know how first he met her? 
 She was cutting bread and butter. 
 
 Charlotte was a married lady. 
 
 And a moral man was Werther, 
 And for all the wealth of Indies 
 
 Would do nothing for to hurt her. 
 
 So he sighed and pined and ogled. 
 And his passion boiled and bubbled. 
 
 Till he blew his silly brains out. 
 And no more was by it troubled. 
 
 Charlotte having seen his body 
 Borne before her on a shutter. 
 
 Like a well-conducted person. 
 Went on cutting bread and butter. 
 
 LITTLE BILLEE. 
 
 There were three sailors of Bristol 
 City 
 Who took a boat and went to sea. 
 But first with beef and captain's bis- 
 cuits. 
 And pickled pork they loaded she. 
 
7S-4 
 
 THRALE. 
 
 There was gorging Jack, and guzzling 
 Jimmy, 
 And the yoimgest he was little 
 Billee. 
 Now when they'd got as far as the 
 Equator, 
 They'd nothing left but one split 
 pea. 
 
 Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 "'I am extremely hungaree." 
 
 To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 
 "We've nothing left, us must eat 
 we." 
 
 .Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 "With one another we shoi;kln't 
 agree ! 
 There's little Bill, he's young and 
 tender. 
 We're old and tough, so let's eat 
 he." 
 
 " O Billy! we're going to kill and eat 
 you, 
 .So undo the button of your che- 
 mie." 
 When Bill received this information, 
 He used his pocket-handkerchie. 
 
 '• First let me say my catechism. 
 Which my poor mother taught to 
 me." 
 " 3Iake haste! make haste!" says 
 guzzling Jimmy, 
 While Jack pidled out his snicker- 
 snee. 
 
 Billee went up to the maiu-top-gallant 
 mast. 
 And down he fell on his bended 
 knee. 
 He scarce had come to the Twelfth 
 Commandment 
 When up he jumps — "There's 
 land I see!" 
 
 •'Jerusalem and Madagascar, 
 And North and South Amerikee, 
 
 There's the British flag a riding at 
 anchor. 
 With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 
 
 So when they got aboard of the Ad- 
 miral's, 
 He hanged fat Jack and flogged 
 Jimmee 
 But as for little Bill, he made him 
 The captain of a Seventy-three. 
 
 Hester L. Thrale (Piozzi). 
 
 THE THREE WAliNINGS. 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found 
 Least willing still to quit the ground ; 
 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 
 That love of life increased with years 
 So much, that in our later stages. 
 When pains grow sharp and sickness 
 
 rages. 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 This great affection to believe. 
 Which all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail, 
 Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 
 When sports went round and all 
 
 were gay. 
 On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, 
 Death called aside the jocund groom 
 With him into another room. 
 
 And, looking grave, "You must," 
 
 says he, 
 " Quit your sweet bride, and come 
 
 with me. " 
 "With you ! and quit my Susan's side? 
 With you!" the hapless husband 
 
 cried ; 
 " Young as I am, 't is monstrous 
 
 hard ! 
 Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: 
 My tlioughts on other matters go; 
 This is my wedding-day, you know. " 
 
 What more he urged I have not 
 heard, 
 His reasons could not well be 
 stronger ; 
 So Death the poor delinquent spared, 
 And left to live a little longer. 
 
THRALE. 
 
 785 
 
 Yet calling up a serious look, 
 
 His liour-glass trembled while he 
 
 spoke — 
 "Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no 
 
 more [hour; 
 
 Sliall Death disturb your mirthful 
 And further, to avoid all blame 
 Of cruelty upon my name, 
 To give you time for preparation. 
 And fit you for your future station, 
 Three several warnings you shall 
 
 have. 
 Before you' re summoned to the grave ; 
 Willing for once I'll quit my prey, 
 
 And grant a kind reprieve, 
 In hopes you'll have no more to say. 
 But Mhen 1 call again this way. 
 Well pleased the world will leave." 
 To these conditions both consented, 
 And parted perfectly contented. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell, 
 How long he lived, how wise, how 
 
 well, 
 How roundly he pursued his course. 
 And smoked his pipe, and stroked 
 his horse, 
 The willing nuise shall tell : 
 He chaffered then, he bought and 
 
 sold. 
 Nor once perceived his growing old. 
 
 Nor thought of death as near : 
 His friends not false, his wife no 
 
 shrew, 
 Many his gains, his children few. 
 
 He passed his hours in jieace. 
 But while he viewed his Avealth 
 
 increase. 
 While thus along life's dusty road 
 The beaten track content he trod. 
 Old time, whose haste no mortal 
 
 spares, 
 Uncalled, unheeded, inuxwares. 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year. 
 And now, one night, in musing mood, 
 
 As all alone he sate. 
 The unwelcome messenger of Fate 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
 Half killed with anger and surprise, 
 "So soon returned!" old Dodson 
 
 cries. 
 "So soon, d'ye call it!" Death 
 
 replies ; 
 
 "Surely, my friend, you're but in 
 jest! 
 
 Since I was here before 
 'T is six-and-thirty years at least. 
 
 And you are now fourscore. ' ' 
 
 "So much the worse," the clown 
 
 rejoined ; 
 " To spare the aged would be kind ; 
 However, see your search be legal ; 
 And yoiu' authority, — is 't regal ? 
 Else yoiT are come on a fool's errand, 
 With but a secretary's warrant. 
 Beside, you promisei me three 
 
 warnings. 
 Which I have looked for nights and 
 
 mornings ; 
 But for that loss of time and ease 
 I can recover damages. " 
 
 "I know," cries Death, " that at 
 
 the best 
 I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
 But don't be captious, friend, at 
 
 least : 
 I little thought you'd still be able 
 To stump about your farms and 
 
 stable : 
 Your years have run to a great 
 
 length ; 
 I wish you joy, though, of your 
 
 strength!" 
 
 " Hold," savs the farmer, " not so 
 fast! 
 I have been lame these four years 
 past!" 
 "And no great wonder," Death 
 replies : 
 " However, you still keep your eyes; 
 And sure, to see one's loves and 
 
 friends 
 For legs and arms would make 
 amends. " 
 "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it 
 might. 
 But latterly I've lost my sight. "' 
 
 " This is a shocking tale, 't is true; 
 But still there's comfort left for you: 
 Each strives your sadness to amuse ; 
 I warrant you hear all the news." 
 "There's none,'' ciies he; "anil 
 if there were, 
 I'm grown so deaf, I could iu)t hear. '' 
 
7! 
 
 TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 "Nay, then," the spectre stern 
 rejoined, 
 " These are unjustifiable yearnings: 
 If you are lame and deaf and blind, 
 You've liad your three suthcient 
 warnings ; 
 
 So come along, no more we'll part. " 
 He said, and touched him with his 
 
 dart. 
 And now, old Dodson, turning pale. 
 Yields to his fate, — so ends my 
 
 tale. 
 
 John Townsend Trowbridge. 
 
 THE VAGABONDS. 
 
 We are two travellers, Iloger and I. 
 Koger's my dog. — Come here, you 
 scamp ! 
 Jump for the gentleman, — mind your 
 eye! 
 Over the table, — look out for the 
 lamp ! 
 The rogue is growing a little old; 
 Five years we've tramped through 
 wind and weather. 
 And slept out-doors when nights 
 were cold. 
 And eat and drank — and starved — 
 together. 
 
 We've learned what comfort is, I tell 
 you! 
 A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
 A fire to thaw our thumbs ( poor fellow ! 
 The paw he holds up there's been 
 frozen). 
 Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 
 
 (This out-door business is bad for 
 strings). 
 Then a few nice buckwheats hot from 
 the griddle. 
 And Roger and I set up for kings ! 
 
 No, thank ye, sir, — 1 never drink; 
 
 Kogerandlareexceedingly moral, — 
 Aren't we, Roger ?— See him wink ! — 
 AVell, something hot, then — we 
 won't quarrel. 
 He's thirsty, too. — see him nod his 
 head? 
 What a pity, sir, that dogs can't 
 talk! 
 He understands every word that's 
 said, 
 And he knows good milk from 
 water-and-chalk. 
 
 The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 
 
 I've been so sadly given to grog, 
 I wonder I've not lost the respect" 
 (Here's to you, sir!) even of my 
 dog. 
 But he sticks by, through thick and 
 thin ; 
 And this old coat,with its empty 
 pockets. 
 And rags that smell of tobacco and 
 gin. 
 He'll follow 'while he has eyes in 
 his sockets. 
 
 There isn't another creature living 
 Would do it, and prove, through 
 every disaster, 
 So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 
 To such a misera})le, thankless 
 master ! 
 No, sir! — see him wag his tail and 
 grin ! 
 By George ! it makes my old eyes 
 water ! 
 That is, there's something in this gin 
 That chokes a fellow. But no 
 matter ! 
 
 We'll have some music, if you're 
 willing. 
 And Roger (hem! what a plague a 
 cougli is, sir!) 
 Shall march a little — Start, you 
 villain ! 
 Paws up ! Eyes front ! Salute your 
 officer ! 
 'Bout face! Attention! Take vour 
 rifle ! 
 (Some dogs have arms, you see!) 
 Now hold your 
 Cap while the gentleman gives atrifle, 
 To aid a poor old patriot soldier! 
 
TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 787 
 
 Marcli ' Halt ! Now show how the 
 
 i-ebel shakes 
 When he stands up to hear his 
 sentence. 
 Now tell us how many drams it takes 
 To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
 Five yelps. — that's live ; he's mighty 
 knowing ! 
 The night'li before us, fill the 
 glasses ! 
 Quick, sir' I'm ill, — my brain is 
 going! — 
 Some brandy, — thank you, — there ! 
 it passes ! 
 
 Why not reform ? That's easy said; 
 
 But I've gone through such 
 
 wretched treatment, [bread. 
 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of 
 
 And scarce remembering what meat 
 
 meant, 
 
 That my poor stomach's past refonn; 
 
 And there are times when, mad 
 
 with thinking, 
 
 I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
 
 To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
 
 Is there a way to forget to think ? 
 At your age, sir, home, fortune, 
 friends, 
 A dear girl's love, — but I took to 
 drink ; — . 
 The same old story; you know 
 how it ends. 
 If you could have seen these classic 
 features, — 
 You needn't laugh, sir; they were 
 not then 
 Such a burning libel on God's 
 creatiires : 
 I was one of your handsome men ! 
 
 If you had seen her. so fair and 
 young. 
 Whose head was happy on this 
 breast! |sung 
 
 If you could have heard the songs 1 
 When the wine went round, you 
 wouldn't have guessed 
 That ever I, sir, should be straying 
 From door to door with fiddle and 
 dog, 
 Eagged and penniless, and playing 
 To vou to-night for a glass of gros ! 
 
 She' s married since, — a parson' s wife ; 
 'Twas better for her that we should 
 part, — 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life. 
 Than a blasted home and a broken 
 heart. 
 I have seen her ? Once : I was weak 
 and spent 
 On the dusty road: a carriage 
 stopped : 
 But little she dreamed, as on she 
 went. 
 Who kissed the coin that her fin- 
 gers ilropped ! 
 
 You've set me talking, sir; I'm 
 sorry ; [change 
 
 It makes me wild to think of the 
 What do you care for a beggar's stoiy ? 
 Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
 I had a mother so proud of me ! 
 'Twas well she died before — Do 
 you know 
 If the happy spirits in heaven can see 
 The ruin and wretchedness here 
 below ? 
 
 Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
 This pain ; then Roger and I will 
 start. 
 I wonder, has he such a lumpish, 
 leaden. 
 Aching thing in place of a heart ? 
 He is sad sometimes, and would 
 weep, if he could. 
 No doubt, remembering things that 
 were, 
 A virtuous kennel, with plenty of 
 food, |ciu\ 
 
 And himself a sober, respectable 
 
 I'm better now; that glass was warm- 
 ing. 
 You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
 We nmst be fiddling and performing 
 For supper and bed, or starve in 
 the street. 
 Not a very gay life to lead, you think? 
 But soon we shall go where lodg- 
 ings are free, 
 x\.nd the sleepers need neither victuals 
 nor drink; 
 The sooner, the better for Roger 
 and me ! 
 
TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 DARIUS GREEN^. 
 
 If ever there lived a Yankee lad, 
 Wise or otherwise, good or bad. 
 Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump 
 With flaj^ping arms from stake or 
 stmup. 
 
 Or, spreading the tail 
 
 Of his coat for a sail. 
 Take a soaring leap from post or rail, 
 
 And wonder why 
 
 He couldn't fly. 
 And flap and flutter and wish and 
 
 try— 
 If ever you knew a country dunce 
 Who didn't try that as often as once, 
 All I can say is, that's a sign 
 He never would do for a hero of mine. 
 
 An aspiring genius was D. Green : 
 The son of a farmer, — age fourteen: 
 His body was long and lank and 
 
 lean, — 
 Just right for flying, as will be seen; 
 He had two eyes as bright as a bean, 
 And a freckled nose that grew be- 
 tween, 
 A little awry, — for I must mention 
 That he had riveted his attention 
 Upon his wonderful invention. 
 Twisting his tongue as he twisted the 
 
 strings 
 And working his face as he worked 
 
 the wings, 
 And with every turn of gimlet and 
 
 screw 
 Turning and screwing his mouth 
 
 I'ound too. 
 Till his nose seemed bent 
 To catch the scent. 
 Around some corner, of new-baked 
 
 pies. 
 And his wrinkled cheeks and his 
 
 squinting eyes 
 Grew puckered into a queer grimace. 
 That made him look very droll in the 
 
 face. 
 And also very wise. 
 
 And wise he must have been, to do 
 
 more 
 Than ever a genius did before. 
 Excepting Dsedalus of yore 
 And his son Icarus, who wore 
 
 Upon their backs 
 
 Those wings of wax 
 He had read of in the old almanacs. 
 Darius was clearly of the opinion 
 That the air was also man's dominion, 
 And that, with paddle or fin or 
 pinion. 
 
 We soon or late 
 
 Should navigate 
 The azure as now we sail the sea. 
 The thing looks simple enough to me ; 
 
 And if you doubt it, 
 Hear how Darius reasoned about it. 
 
 '•The birds can fly, 
 
 An' why can't I? 
 
 Must we give in," 
 
 Says he with a grin, 
 
 " 'T the bluebird an' phoebe 
 
 Are smarter n we be '? 
 Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller 
 An' blackbird an' catbird beat us 
 holler ? 
 
 Does the leetlechatterin'. sassy wren, 
 No bigger' n my thumb, know more 
 than men ? 
 Jest show me that ! 
 Er prove 't the bat 
 Hez got more brains than's in my bat. 
 An' I'll back down, an' not till 
 then ! " 
 
 He argued further: " Ner I can't see 
 What's th' use of wings to a bumble- 
 bee, 
 Fer to get a livin' with, more'n to 
 me ; — 
 Ain't my business 
 Importanter'n his'n is ? 
 
 " That Icarus 
 Was a silly cuss, — 
 Him an' his daddy Daedalus. 
 They might 'a' knowed wings made 
 
 o' wax 
 Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard 
 whacks. 
 I'll make mine o' luther, 
 Er suthin er other. ' ' 
 
 And he said to himself, as he tin- 
 kered and planned : 
 "But I ain't goin' to show my hand 
 
TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 789 
 
 To nummies that never can under- 
 stand 
 
 The fust idee that's big an' grand. 
 They'd 'a'laft an' made fun 
 
 O' Creation itself afore 't was done ! " 
 
 So he kept his secret from all the rest, 
 
 Safely buttoned within his vest; 
 
 And in the loft above the shed 
 
 Himself he locks, with thimble and 
 thread 
 
 And wax and hammer and buckles 
 and screws, 
 
 And all such things as geniuses use ; — 
 
 Two bats for patterns, curious fel- 
 lows ! 
 
 A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows ; 
 
 An old hoop-skirt or two, as well as 
 
 Some wire, and several old umbrellas ; 
 
 A carriage-cover, for tail and wings; 
 
 A piece of harness ; and straps and 
 strings ; 
 And a big strong box, 
 In which he locks 
 
 These and a hundred other things. 
 
 His grinning brothers, Reuben and 
 
 Burke 
 And Nathan and Jotham and Solo- 
 mon, ku-k 
 Around the corner to see him work, — 
 Sitting cross-legged, like a Turk, 
 Drawing the waxed-end througli with 
 
 a jerk, 
 And boring the holes with a comical 
 
 quirk 
 Of his wise old head, and a knowing 
 
 smirk. 
 But vainly they mounted each other's 
 
 backs. 
 And poked through knot-holes and 
 
 pried through cracks; 
 With wood from the pile and straw 
 
 from the stacks 
 He plugged the knot-holes and calked 
 
 the cracks; 
 And a bucket of water, which one 
 
 would think 
 He had brought up into the loft to 
 
 drink 
 When he chanced to be dry. 
 Stood always nigh. 
 For Darius was sly ! 
 And whenever at work he happened 
 
 to spy 
 
 At chink or crevice a blinking eye. 
 He let a dipper of water fly. 
 " Take that! an' ef ever ye git a peep. 
 Guess ye' 11 ketch a weasel asleep!" 
 
 And he sings as he locks 
 
 His big strong box : — 
 
 S()N(;. 
 " The weasel's head is small an' trim, 
 An' he is leetle an' long an' slim. 
 An' quick of motion an' nimble of 
 limb. 
 An' ef yeou'll be 
 Advised by me. 
 Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' 
 him!" 
 
 So day after day 
 He stitched and tinkered and ham- 
 mered away. 
 Till at last 'twas done, — 
 The greatest invention under the 
 
 sun ! 
 "An' now," says Darius, "hooray 
 f er some f ini ! ' ' 
 
 'Twas the Fourth of July, 
 And the weather was dry. 
 And not a cloud was on all the sky. 
 Save a few light fleeces, which here 
 and there. 
 Half mist, half air. 
 Like foam on the ocean went float- 
 ing by: 
 Just as lovely a morning as ever was 
 
 seen 
 For a nice little trip in a flying-ma- 
 chine. 
 
 Thought cunning Darius : "Now I 
 
 shan't go 
 Along 'ith the fellers to see the show. 
 I'll say I've got sicli a terrible cough ! 
 An' then, when the folks 'ave all 
 gone off, 
 I'll hev full swing 
 Fer to try the thing. 
 An' practyse a leetle on the wing.'' 
 
 " Ain't goin' to see the celebration? " 
 Says Brother Nate. "No; bothera- 
 tion! 
 I've gotsich a cold — a toothache — I — 
 My gracious! — feel's though I should 
 fly!" 
 
Said Jotliam, " iSho ! / 
 Guess ye better go." 
 Btit Darius said, ''No! 
 Sliouldn't wonder 'f yeou miglit see 
 
 me, tliougli, 
 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red 
 O' tliis jumpin", thumpin' pain 'n my 
 
 liead." 
 For all the while to himself he said : — 
 
 " 1 tell ye what! 
 I'll fly a few times around the lot, 
 To see how 't seems, then soon 'si've 
 
 got 
 The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not, 
 I'll astonish the nation. 
 An' all creation. 
 By flyin' over the celebration ! 
 Over their heads I'll sail like an 
 
 eagle ; 
 I'll balance myself on my wings like 
 
 a sea-gull ; 
 I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stan' 
 
 on the steeple ; 
 I'll flop up to winders an' scare the 
 
 people ! 
 I'll light on the llbbe'ty-pole, an' 
 
 crow ; 
 An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools 
 below, 
 ' What world's this 'ere 
 That I've come so near ? ' 
 Fer I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap 
 
 f'm the moon; 
 An' I'll try a race 'itli their ol' bal- 
 loon!" 
 
 He crept from his bed ; 
 And, seeing the others were gone, he 
 
 said, 
 " I'm a-gittin' over the cold'n my 
 head." 
 And away he sped, 
 To open the wonderful box in the 
 shed. 
 
 His brothers had walked but a little 
 
 way 
 When Jotham to Nathan chanced to 
 
 say, 
 " What on airth is he up to, hey ? " 
 "Don'o' — the's suthin' er other to 
 
 pay, 
 
 Er he wouldn't 'a'stayed to hum to- 
 day." 
 
 Says Burke, '"His toothache's all'n 
 
 his eye I 
 He never'd miss a Fo'th-o'-July. 
 Ef he hedn't got some machine to 
 
 try." 
 Then Sol, the little one, spoke: '• By 
 
 darn ! 
 Le's hurry back an' hide'n the barn, 
 An' pay hun fer tellin' us that yarn ! " 
 "Agreed!" Through the orchard 
 
 they creep back. 
 Along by the fences, behind the 
 
 stack. 
 And one by one, through a hole in 
 
 the wall. 
 In under the dusty bai-n they crawl. 
 Dressed in their Sunday garments 
 
 all; 
 And a very astonishing sight was 
 
 that, 
 When each in his cobwebbed coat 
 
 and hat 
 Came up through the floor like an 
 
 ancient rat. 
 And there they hid ; 
 And Reuben slid 
 The fastenings back, and the door 
 
 undid. 
 " Keep dark! said he, 
 " While I squint an' see what the' is 
 
 to see." 
 
 As knights of old put on their mail. — 
 
 From head to foot 
 
 An iron suit. 
 Iron jacket and iron boot. 
 Iron breeches, and on the head 
 No hat, but an iron pot instead. 
 
 And under the chin the bail, — 
 I believe they called the thing a helm : 
 And the lid they carried they called 
 
 a shield ; 
 And, thus accoutred, they took the 
 
 held. 
 Sallying forth to overwhelm 
 The dragons and pagans that plagued 
 the realm : — 
 
 So this modern knight 
 Prepared for flght. 
 Put on his winiis and strapped them 
 
 tight; ^ 
 Jointed and jaunty, strong and 
 lisht: 
 
TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 791 
 
 Buckled them fast to shoulder and 
 
 hip, — 
 Ten feet they measured from tip to 
 
 tip: 
 And a liehn had he, but that he wore 
 Not on his head Hke those of yore. 
 But more hke the helm of a ship. 
 
 '• Hush!" Reuben said, 
 " He's up in the shed! 
 He's opened the winder, — I see his 
 
 head ! 
 He stretches it out, 
 An' pokes it about, 
 Lookin' to see if the coast is clear. 
 
 An' noboily near ; — 
 Guess he don'o' who's hid in here! 
 He's ricjsjin' a spring-board over the 
 
 ^sill! 
 Stop laffin' Solomon ! Burke, keep 
 
 still ! 
 He's a climin' out now. Of all the 
 
 things ! 
 Wat's he got on? I van, it's wings! 
 And that 'tother thing? I vum, it's 
 
 a tail ! 
 An' there he sets like a hawk on a 
 
 rail ! 
 Steppin' careful, he travels the length 
 Of his spring-board, and teeters to 
 
 try its strength. 
 Now he stretches his wings, like a 
 
 monstrous bat; 
 Peeks over his shoulder, this way an' 
 
 that, 
 Fer to see "f the's any one passin' by; 
 But the's on'y a ca'f an' a goslin 
 
 nigh. 
 Tlieij turn up at him a wonderin" 
 
 eye, 
 To see — The dragon? he's goin' to 
 
 fly! 
 
 Away he goes! Jimminy ! what a 
 jiuup ! 
 Flop — flop — an' plump 
 To the ground with a thump ! 
 Flutt'rin" an' flound'rin, all'n a 
 lump! " 
 
 As a demon is luu'led by an angel's 
 
 spear 
 Heels over head, to his proper 
 
 sphere. 
 Heels over head, and head over heels. 
 Dizzily down the abyss he wheels, 
 So fell Darius. Upon his crown. 
 In the midst of the barn-yard he 
 
 came down. 
 In a wonderful whirl of tangled 
 
 strings. 
 Broken braces and broken springs. 
 Broken tail and broken wings. 
 Shooting stars, and various things. 
 Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff, 
 And much that \vasn't so sweet by 
 
 half. 
 Away with a bellow fied the calf. 
 And what was that? Did the gosling 
 
 laugh? 
 'Tis a merry roar 
 From the old barn-door, 
 Ai\(\ he hears the voice of Jotham 
 
 crying, 
 "Say, D'rius! how de yeou like 
 
 fly in' ?" 
 
 Slowly, ruefully, where he lay, 
 Darius just turned and looked that 
 
 way. 
 As he stanched his sorrowful nose 
 
 with his cuff. 
 " Wal, I like flyin' well enough," 
 He said; "but the' ain't such a 
 
 thunderin' sight 
 O' fun in't when ye come to light." 
 
 I have just room for the moral here ; 
 And this is the moral : Stick to your 
 
 sphere. 
 Or if you insist, as you have the 
 
 right. 
 On spreading your wings for a loftier 
 
 flight. 
 The moral is, — Take care how you 
 
 light. 
 
792 
 
 JOHN WO L GOT {PETER PINDAR). 
 
 John Wolcot (Peter Pindar). 
 
 THE liAZOR-SELLER. 
 
 A FELLOAV in a market town, 
 
 Most musical, cried razors up and 
 
 down, 
 And offered twelve for eighteen- 
 
 pence ; 
 Which certainly seemed wondrous 
 
 cheap, 
 And for the money quite a heap. 
 As every man would huy, with 
 
 cash and sense. 
 
 A country bumpkin the great offer 
 
 heai'd ; 
 Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad 
 
 black beard. 
 That seemed a shoe-brush stuck 
 
 beneath his nose : 
 With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence 
 
 he paid, 
 And proudly to himself in whispers, 
 
 said, 
 "This rascal stole the razors, I 
 
 suppose. 
 
 " No matte;; if the fellow he a knave. 
 Provided that the razors shave; 
 It certainly will be a monstrous 
 prize. " 
 So home the clown, with his good 
 
 fortune, went. 
 Smiling in heart and soul, content. 
 And quickly soaped himself to ears 
 and eyes. 
 
 Being well lathered from a dish or tub, 
 Hodge now began with grinning pain 
 
 to grub, 
 .Just like a hedger cutting furze: 
 'Twas a vile razor! — then the rest 
 
 he tried — 
 All were impostors — " Ah! " Hodge 
 
 sighed , 
 I wish my eighteen-pence within 
 
 my purse." 
 
 Hodge sought the fellow 
 him — and begun : 
 
 • found 
 
 "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to 
 
 you 'tis fmi. 
 That people tiay themselves out of 
 
 their lives: 
 You rascal ! for an hour have I been 
 
 grubbing, 
 Giving my crying whiskers here a 
 
 scrubbing. 
 With razors just like oyster-knives. 
 Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, 
 To ciy up razors that can't shave. " 
 
 '■ Friend," quoth the razor-man, 
 " I'm not a knave: 
 As for the razors you have bought. 
 Upon my soul I never thought 
 That they Avould shave. " 
 " Xot think they'd shave!" quoth 
 Hodge, with wondering eyes. 
 And voice not nuich unlike an 
 Indian yell ; 
 " What were they made for then, you 
 dog ? " he cries; 
 " Made!" quoth the fellow, with a 
 smile, — "to sell" 
 
 THE PILGUIMS AND THE PEAS. 
 
 A BRACE of sinners, for no good. 
 Were ordered to the Virgin 
 Mary's shrine. 
 Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, 
 wood. 
 And in a curled white wig looked 
 wondrous fine. 
 
 Fifty long miles had these sad rogues 
 
 to travel. 
 AVith something in their shoes much 
 
 worse than gravel : 
 In short, their toes so gentle to 
 
 amuse. 
 The priest had ordered peas into 
 
 their shoes: 
 A nostrum famous in old popish 
 
 times 
 For purifying souls deep sunk in 
 
 crimes : 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 793 
 
 A sort of apostolic salt, 
 
 That popish parsons for its jDOwers 
 exalt, 
 For keeping souls of sinners sweet, 
 Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat. 
 
 The knaves set off on the same day. 
 Peas in their shoes, to go and pray ; 
 But very different was their speed, 
 I wot: 
 One of the sinners galloped on. 
 Light as a bullet from a gun ; 
 
 The other limped as if he had been 
 shot. 
 One saw the Virgin, soon — peccavi 
 cried — 
 Had his soul whitewashed all so 
 clever ; 
 "When home again he nimbly hied. 
 Made fit with saints above to live 
 for ever. 
 
 In coming back, however, let me 
 say. 
 
 He met his brother rogue about half- 
 way — 
 
 Hobbling with outstretched hands 
 and bending knees. 
 
 Cursing the souls and bodies of the 
 peas : 
 
 His eyes in tears, his cheeks and 
 brows in sweat, 
 
 Deep sympathizing with his groaning 
 feet. 
 
 "How now!" the light-toed white- 
 washed pilgrim broke, 
 " You lazy lubber! " 
 " You see it! " cried the other, "'tis 
 
 no joke ; 
 My feet once hard as any rock. 
 Are now as soft as blubber. 
 
 " But, brother sinner, do explain 
 How 'tis that you are not in pain — 
 AVhat power hath work'd a wonder 
 
 for //OH?- toes — 
 Whilst I, just like a snail, am 
 
 crawling 
 Now groaning, now on saints 
 
 devoutly bawling, 
 Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my 
 
 woes? 
 
 " How is't that you can like a grey- 
 hound go. 
 Merry as if nought had happened, 
 burn ye?" 
 "Why,'' cried the other, grinning, 
 ' ' you must know. 
 That just before I ventured on my 
 journey. 
 To walk a little more at ease, 
 I took the liberty to boil my peas ! " 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 
 A MATRIMOIflAL EPIC. 
 
 John Dobbins was so captivated 
 By Mary Trueman's fortune, face, 
 
 and cap, 
 (With near two thousand pounds 
 
 the hook was baited), 
 That in he popped to matrimony's 
 
 trap. 
 
 One small ingredient towards happi- 
 ness, 
 
 It seems ne'er occupied a single 
 thought ; 
 
 For his accomplished bride 
 Appearing well supplied 
 With tlie three charms of riches, 
 beauty, dress. 
 He did not, as he ought. 
 Think of aught else; so no in- 
 quiry made he 
 As to the temper of his lady. 
 
 And here was certainly a great omis- 
 sion; 
 
 None should accept of Hymen's gentle 
 fetter, 
 " For worse or better," [tion. 
 
 Whatever be their prospect or condi- 
 
794 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 Without acquaintance with each 
 
 As it has been 
 
 other's nature; 
 
 My lot to see, I think you'll own your 
 
 For many a mild and quiet crea- 
 
 wife 
 
 ture 
 
 As good or better than the generality. 
 
 Of charming disposition, 
 
 
 Alas! by thoughtless marriage has 
 
 An interest in your case I really 
 
 destroyed it. 
 
 take. 
 
 So take advice; let girls dress e'er so 
 
 And therefore gladly this agreement 
 
 tastily. 
 
 make : 
 
 Don't enter into wedlock hastily 
 
 An hundred eggs within the basket 
 
 Unless you can't avoid it. 
 
 lie, 
 
 
 With which your luck, to-morrow, 
 
 Week followed week, and it must 
 
 you shall try; 
 
 be confest, 
 
 Also my five best horses, with my 
 
 The bridegroom and the bride had 
 
 cart ; 
 
 both been blest; 
 
 And from the farm at dawn you shall 
 
 Month after month had languidly 
 
 depart. 
 
 transpired. 
 
 All round the country go, 
 
 Both parties became tired : 
 
 And be particular, I beg; 
 
 Year after year dragged on ; 
 
 Where husbands rule, a horse be- 
 
 Their happiness was gone. 
 
 stow, 
 
 
 But where the wives, an egg. 
 
 Ah ! foolish pair ! 
 
 And if the horses go before the 
 
 " Bear and forbear" 
 
 eggs, 
 
 Should be the rule for married folks 
 
 I'll ease you of your wife, — I will, - 
 
 to take. 
 
 I'fegs!" 
 
 But blind mankind (poor discon- 
 
 
 tented elves) ! 
 
 Away the married man departed 
 
 Too often make 
 
 Brisk and light-hearted: 
 
 The misery of themselves. 
 
 Not doubting that, of course, 
 
 
 The first five houses each would take 
 
 At length the husband said, "This 
 
 a horse. 
 
 will not do ! 
 
 At the first house he knocked, 
 
 Mary, I never will be ruled by you; 
 
 He felt a little shocked 
 
 So, wife, d' ye see ? 
 
 To hear a female voice, with angiy 
 
 To live together as we can't agree, 
 
 roar. 
 
 Suppose we part!" 
 
 Scream out,— " Hullo ! 
 
 With woman's pride. 
 
 Who's there below ? 
 
 Mary replied. 
 
 Why, husband, are you deaf ? go to 
 
 " With all my heart!" 
 
 the door. 
 
 
 See who it is, 1 beg." 
 
 John Dobbins then to Mary's father 
 
 Our poor friend John 
 
 goes. 
 
 Trudged quickly on, 
 
 And gives the list of his imagined 
 
 But first laid at the door an egg. 
 
 woes. 
 
 
 
 I will not all his journey through 
 
 " Dear son-in-law ! " the father said. 
 
 The discontented traveller pursue; 
 
 " I see 
 
 Suffice it here to say 
 
 All is quite true that you've been 
 
 That when his first day's task was 
 
 telling me; 
 
 nearly done. 
 
 Yet there in marriage is such strange 
 
 He'd seen an hundred husbands, 
 
 fatality, 
 
 minus one. 
 
 That when as much of life 
 
 And eggs just ninety-nine had given 
 
 You shall have seen 
 
 away. 
 
ANONYMOUS. 
 
 795 
 
 ''Hal there's a house where he I 
 seek must dwell," 
 
 At length cried John; "I'll go and 
 ring the bell." 
 
 The servant came, — John asked him, 
 "Pray, 
 Friend, is your master in the 
 way? " 
 "No," said tlie man, with 
 smiling phiz, 
 " My master is not, but my mis- 
 tress is; 
 Walk in that parlor, sir, my 
 
 lady's in it: 
 Master will be himself there — in 
 a minute." 
 The lady said her husband then was 
 
 dressing, 
 And, if his business was not very 
 
 pressing, 
 She would prefer that he should Avait 
 until 
 His toilet was completed ; 
 Adding, " Pray, sir, be seated." 
 ," Madam, I will," 
 Said John, with great politeness; 
 "but I own 
 That you alone 
 Can tell me all I wish to know; 
 Will you do so ? 
 Pardon my rudeness 
 And just iiave tlie goodness 
 (A wager to decide) to tell me — 
 do — 
 Who governs in this liouse, — your 
 spouse or you ? ' ' 
 
 "Sir," said the lady, with a 
 
 doubting nod, 
 "Your question's very odd; 
 But as I think none ought to be 
 Ashamed to do their duty, do 
 
 you see ? 
 On that account I scruple not to 
 
 say 
 It always is my pleasure to obey. 
 But here's my husband (always 
 
 sad without me) ; 
 Take not my word, but ask him, 
 
 if you doubt me." 
 
 '* Sir," said the husband, " 't is most 
 true; 
 
 I promise you, 
 A more obedient, kind, and gentle 
 woman 
 Does not exist." 
 " Give us your fist," 
 Said John, " and, as the case is some- 
 thing more than common. 
 Allow me to present you witli a 
 
 beast 
 Worth fifty guineas at tlie very 
 least. 
 
 " There's Smiler, sir, a beauty, you 
 must own. 
 There's Prince, tliat handsome 
 black. 
 Ball the gray mare, and Saladin the 
 roan. 
 Besides old Dunn ; 
 • Come, sir, choose one ; 
 But take advice from me, 
 Let Prince be he; 
 Why, sir, you'll look a hero on his 
 back." 
 
 " I'll take the black, and thank you 
 too." 
 " Nay, husband, that will never 
 
 do; 
 You, know, you've often heard 
 
 me say 
 How much I long to have a gray; 
 And this one will exactly do for 
 me." 
 "No, no," said he, 
 " Friend, take the four others 
 
 back. 
 And only leave the black." 
 "Nay, husband, I declare 
 I must have the gray mare:" 
 Adding (with gentle force), 
 "The gray mare is, I'm sure, the 
 better horse."' 
 
 "Well, if it must be so, — good sir. 
 The gray mare ire prefer; 
 
 So we accept your gift." John made 
 a leg : 
 
 " Allow me to present you with an egg ; 
 'Tis my last egg remaining. 
 The cause of my regaining, 
 
 I trust the fond affection of my wife. 
 
 Whom I will love the better all my 
 life. 
 
mm 
 
 796 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ' ' Home to content has her kind 
 father brought me ; 
 
 I thank him for the lesson he has 
 taii2;lit me." 
 
 DOCTOR DUOLLHEAD-S CURE. 
 
 TiiKEE weeks to a day had old Doctor 
 Drollhead 
 Attended Miss Dehby Keepill ; 
 Three weeks to a day had she lain in 
 her bed 
 Defying his marvellous skill. 
 
 She put out her tongue for the twenty- 
 first time, 
 But it looked very much as it 
 should ; 
 Her pulse with the doctor's scarce 
 failed of a rhyme, 
 As a matter jDf course, it was good. 
 
 To-day has this gentleman happened 
 to see — 
 Very strange he's not done it 
 before — 
 That the way to recovery simply 
 must be 
 Right out of this same chamber- 
 door. 
 
 So he said. " Leave your bed, dear 
 Miss Keepill, I pray; 
 Keep the powders and pills, if you 
 miist. 
 But the color of health will not long 
 stay away 
 If you exercise freely, I trust." 
 
 " Why, doctor! of all things, when I 
 am so weak 
 That scarce from my bed can I 
 stir, 
 Of color and exercise thus will you 
 speak ? 
 Of what are you thinking, dear 
 sir?" 
 
 "That a fright is the cure, my good 
 
 lady, for you," 
 
 He said to himself and the wall. 
 
 And to frighten her, what did the 
 
 doctor do, 
 
 But jump into bed, boots and all ! 
 
 And as in jumped he, why then out 
 jumped she, 
 Like a hare, except for the pother, 
 And shockingly shocked, pray who 
 wouldn't be ? 
 Ran, red as a rose, to her mother. 
 
 Doctor Drollhead, meanwhile, is 
 happily sure, 
 Debby owes a long life just to 
 him; 
 And vows he's discovered a capital 
 cure 
 For the bedrid when tied by a 
 whim. 
 
 At any rate, long, long ago this oc- 
 cm-red. 
 And Debby is not with the dead; 
 But in pretty good liealth, 't may be 
 gently inferred. 
 Since she makes all the family 
 bread. 
 
SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Berkeley Aiken. 
 
 USCnOWXED KINGS. 
 
 O YE uncrowned but kingly kings! 
 Made royal by the brain and heart; 
 Of all earth's wealth the noblest 
 
 part. 
 Yet reckoned nothing in the mart 
 Where men know naught but sordid 
 
 things — 
 All hail to you, most kingly kings ! 
 
 O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
 Whose breath and words of living 
 
 flame 
 Have waked slave-nations from theii' 
 
 shame, 
 And bid tliem rise in manhood's 
 
 name, — 
 Swift as the curved bow backward 
 
 springs — 
 To follow you, most kingly kings! 
 
 O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
 Wiiose strong right arm hath oft been 
 
 bared 
 Where fire of righteous battle glared, 
 And where all odds of wrong ye 
 
 dared ! — 
 To think on you the heart upsprings, 
 O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
 
 O ye uncrowned luit kingly kings! 
 Whose biu-ning songs like lava 
 
 poured. 
 Have smitten like a two-edged sword 
 Sent forth by Heaven's avenging 
 
 Lord 
 To purge the eftrth where serfdom 
 
 clings 
 To all but you, O kingly kings ! 
 
 O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
 To whose ecstatic gaze alone 
 The beautiful by Heaven is shown. 
 And who have made it all youroAMi: 
 Your lavish hand around us flings 
 Earth's richest wreaths, O noble 
 kings ! 
 
 O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
 The heart leaps wildly at your 
 
 thought; 
 And the brain fires as if it caught 
 Shreds of your mantle; ye have 
 
 fought 
 Not vainly, if your glory brings 
 A lingering light to earth, O kings! 
 
 O ye uncrowned but kingly kings ! 
 Whose souls on Marah's fruit did sup, 
 And went in fiery chariots up 
 When each had drained his hemlock 
 
 cup, — 
 Ye priests of God, but tyrants' stings, 
 Uncrowned but still the kingliest 
 
 Icings ! 
 
 Annie R. Annan. 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 The summer coaxed me to be glad. 
 Entreating with tlie primrose hue 
 
 Of sunset skies, Avith downward calls 
 From viewless larks, with winds 
 that blew 
 
 The red-tipped clover's breast abroad. 
 And told the mirth of waterfalls; 
 
 In vain! my heart would not be 
 wooed 
 
 From the December of its mood. 
 
r98 
 
 AYTON—BARR. 
 
 But on a day of wintry skies 
 
 A withei-ed rose slipped from my 
 book; 
 
 And as I cauglit its faint perfi;me 
 The soul of summer straight forsook 
 
 The little tenement it loved. 
 And tilled the world with song 
 and bloom, 
 
 Missed, in their season, by my sense, 
 
 fcjo found my heart its recompense. 
 
 Sir Robert Ayton. 
 
 FAIR AND UXWORTHY. 
 
 I DO confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 
 And I might have gone near to love 
 thee. 
 Had I not found the lightest prayer 
 That lips could speak, had power 
 to move thee : 
 But I can let thee now alone, 
 As Morlhy to be loved by none. 
 
 I do confess thou'rt sweet; yet find 
 Thee such an unthriftof thysweets, 
 
 Thy favors are but like the wind, 
 That kisses everything it meets; 
 
 And since thou canst with more than 
 one, 
 
 Thou'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 
 
 The morning rose that imtouched 
 
 stands 
 Armed with her briers, how sweetly 
 
 smells! 
 But plucked and strained through 
 
 ruder hands, 
 Xo more her sweetness with her 
 
 dwells. 
 But scent and beauty both are gone, 
 And leaves fall from her one by one. 
 
 ►Such fate, erelong, will thee betide. 
 When thou hast handled been 
 awhile. — 
 Like sere flowers to be thrown aside ; 
 And I will sigh, while some will 
 smile. 
 To see thy love for more than one 
 Hath brought thee to be loved by 
 none. 
 
 Anna Letitia Barbauld. 
 
 THE SABBATH or THE .SOUL. 
 
 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting 
 cares. 
 Of earth and folly bom ; 
 Ye shall not dim the light that 
 streams 
 From this celestial morn. 
 
 To-morrow will be time enough 
 To feel your harsh control; 
 
 Ye shall not violate, this day, 
 The Sabbath of my soul. 
 
 Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts, 
 Let fires of vengeance die ; 
 
 And, purged from sin, may I be- 
 hold 
 A (iod of purity. 
 
 Mary A, Barr. 
 
 frHfTE POPPIES. 
 
 O MYSTIC, mighty flower whose frail 
 
 white leaves 
 Silky and crumpled like a banner 
 
 furled. 
 Shadow the black mysterious seed 
 
 that gives 
 The drop that soothes and lulls a 
 
 restless world; 
 Nepenthes for our woe, yet swift to 
 
 kill. 
 Holding the knowledge of both good 
 
 and ill. 
 
 The rose for beauty may outshine 
 
 thee far, 
 The lily hold herself like some 
 
 sweet saint 
 Apart from earthly griefs, as is a 
 
 star 
 Apart from any fear of earthly 
 
 taint; 
 The snowy poppy like an angel 
 
 stands. 
 With consolation in her open hands. 
 
BENJAMIN. 
 
 799 
 
 Ere History was born, the poet 
 sung 
 How godlike Thone kne^v thy com- 
 pelling power, 
 
 And ancient Ceres, by strange sor- 
 rows wrung, 
 Sought sweet oblivion from thy 
 healing Hower. 
 
 Giver of sleep! Lord of the Land of 
 Dreams ! 
 
 C) simple weed, thou art not what 
 man deems. 
 
 The clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their 
 god of sleep 
 Wandering about tlirough the 
 blac-k midnight hours, 
 
 toothing the restless couch with 
 slumbers deep, 
 And scattering thy medicated flow- 
 ers. 
 
 Till hands were folded for their final 
 rest. 
 
 Clasping white poppies o'er a ijulse- 
 less breast. 
 
 We have a clearer vision; every 
 hour 
 Kind hearts and hands the poppy 
 juices mete. 
 
 And panting sufferers bless its kindly 
 power. 
 And \\eary ones invoke its peace- 
 ful sleep. 
 
 Health has its rose, and grape and 
 joyfid palm. 
 
 The poppy to the sick is wine and 
 balm. 
 
 I sing the poppy I The frail snowy 
 
 weed ! 
 The flower of mercy! that within 
 
 its heart 
 Doth keep "a drop serene"' for 
 
 human need, 
 A drowsy balm for every bitter 
 
 smart. 
 For hapjiy hours the rose will idly 
 
 blow — 
 The poiijiy hath a charm for pain 
 
 and woe. 
 
 Park Benjamin. 
 
 PRESS ON. 
 
 Press on! there's no such word as 
 fail! 
 Press nobly on ! the goal is near, — 
 Ascend the mountain ! breast the 
 gale ! 
 Look upward, onward, — never 
 fear ! 
 Why shoidilst thou faint '? Heaven 
 smiles above. 
 Though storm and vapor intervene ; 
 That sun shines on, whose name is 
 Love, 
 Serenely o'er Life's shadow' d scene. 
 
 Press on ! surmount the rocky steeps, 
 
 Climb boldly o'er the torrent's 
 arch ; 
 He fails alone who feebly creeps; 
 
 He wins, who dares tlie hero's 
 march. 
 Be thou a hero ! let thy might 
 
 Tramp on eternal snows its way. 
 And through the ebon walls of night 
 
 Hew down a passage unto day. 
 
 Press on ! if Fortune play thee false 
 To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; 
 Whom now she sinks slie now 
 exalts, 
 Taking old gifts and granting new. 
 The wisdom of the present hour 
 Makes up for follies past and 
 gone, — 
 To weakness strength succeeds, and 
 power 
 From frailty springs, — press on! 
 jsress on ! 
 
 Press on! what though upon the 
 ground 
 Thy love has been poured out like 
 rain ? 
 That happiness is always found 
 The sweetest, which is born of 
 pain. 
 Oft 'mid the forest's deepest glooms, 
 A bird sings from some blighted 
 tree. 
 And, in the dreariest desert, blooms 
 A never-dving rose for thee. 
 
800 
 
 BEN8EL —BLACKIE. 
 
 Therefore, press on! and reach the 
 goal, 
 And gahi the prize and wear the 
 crown ; 
 Faint not ! for to the steadfast soul 
 Come wealth and honor and re- 
 nown. 
 To thine own self be true, and keep 
 Thy mind from sloth, thy heart 
 from soil ; 
 Tress on ! and thou shalt surely reap 
 A heavenly harvest for thy toil ! 
 
 Annie Berry Bensel 
 
 THE LADY OF THE CASTLE. 
 
 See you yonder castle stately ? 
 
 On the rocks it stands alone. 
 Gleaming in the silver moonlight 
 
 Like a sentinel of stone. 
 
 Years ago in that old castle 
 Dwelt a lady, proud and grand ; 
 
 Fairer than the fairest lady 
 You might find in all the land. 
 
 It A\as on her bridal morning — 
 So the gossips tell the tale — 
 
 Lady Hilda walked the garden, 
 Fairer than the roses pale. 
 
 Soon she reached the massive gate- 
 way, 
 
 And her dark eyes sparkled bright, 
 As she saw a gay procession 
 
 Wending towards the castle heiglit. 
 
 For she knew it was lier lover, 
 With his merry comrades all; 
 
 Foremost in the glittering pageant 
 Kode Count Rupert, fair and tall. 
 
 Just between them and the castle 
 Lay a chasm wide and deep; 
 
 They must ride still further onward 
 O'er the bridge their road to keep. 
 
 But Count Rupert saw the lady 
 Standing by the gateway there, 
 
 Dauntlessly he turned his charger. 
 Heeding not the cry, " Bewarel" 
 
 " It is but a narrow chasm, 
 Go you by the bridge," cried lie, 
 
 " I will leap to yonder hillock. 
 There my lady waits for me." 
 
 All in vain his comrades' warning, 
 Vain, alas, his page's cries; 
 
 Forward leaps the noble charger, 
 Lady Hilda veils her eyes. 
 
 One long cry of bitter anguish ! 
 
 She who heard it, swooning, fell; 
 Knowing by that single outcry 
 
 All the tale there was to tell. 
 
 Turn your eyes beyond the castle. 
 You will see a convent drear; 
 
 There the lady lived they tell me, 
 Just for one brief mournful year. 
 
 There within the lofty chapel 
 Is a quaint and carven tomb. 
 
 Lady Hilda — well beloved — 
 
 Sleeps beneath the ghostly gloom. 
 
 Xo one dwells in that old castle. 
 
 Desolate it stands alone, 
 Gleaming in the silver moonlight 
 
 Like a sentinel of stone. 
 
 John Stuart Blackie. 
 
 THE HOPE OF THE HETERODOX. 
 
 In Thee, O blessed God, I hope. 
 
 In Thee, in Thee, in Thee ! 
 Though banned by presbyter and 
 pope. 
 My trust is still in Thee. 
 Thou wilt not cast Thy servant 
 
 out 
 ■ Because he chanced to see 
 With his own eyes, and dared to 
 doubt 
 What praters preach of Thee. 
 Oh no ! no ! no ! 
 For ever and ever and aye, 
 (Though pope and presbyter 
 
 bray) 
 Thou wilt not cast away 
 An honest soul from thee. 
 
BLANCUARD. 
 
 801 
 
 I look around on earth and sky, 
 
 And Thee and ever Thee, 
 With open heart and open eyes 
 
 How can I fail to see ? 
 My ear drinks in from field and fell 
 
 Life's rival floods of glee: 
 Where finds the i^riest his private hell 
 AVhen all is full of Thee ? 
 Oh no ! no ! no ! 
 Though flocks of geese 
 Give Heaven's high ear no peace : 
 I still enjoy a lease 
 
 Of happy thoughts from Thee. 
 
 My faith is strong; out of itself 
 
 It grows erect and free ; 
 No Talmud on the Rabbi's shelf 
 
 (Mves amulets to me. 
 Small Greek I know, nor Hebrew 
 much. 
 But this I plainly see : 
 Two legs without the bishop's crutch 
 God gave to thee and me. 
 Oh no ! no ! no ! 
 The church may loose and bind. 
 But mind, immortal mind, 
 As free as wave or wind. 
 Came forth, O God, from Thee ! 
 
 O pious quack! thy pills are good; 
 
 But mine as good may be, " 
 And healthy men on healthy food 
 
 Live without you or me. 
 Good lady ! let the doer do ! 
 
 Thought is a busy bee. 
 Nor honey less what it doth brew. 
 Though very gall to thee. 
 Oh no! no! no! 
 Though councils decree and de- 
 clare ; 
 Like a tree in the open air. 
 The soul its foliage fair 
 Spreads forth, 6 God, to Thee! 
 
 Laman Blanchard. 
 
 WISHES OF YOUTH. 
 
 Gayly and greenly let my seasons 
 
 run : 
 And should the war-winds of the 
 
 world uproot 
 
 The sanctities of life, and its sweet 
 
 fruit 
 Cast forth as fuel for the fiery 
 
 sun, — 
 The dews be turned to ice, — fair 
 
 days begun 
 In peace, wear out in pain, and 
 
 soimds that suit 
 Despair and discord, keep Hope's 
 
 harp-string mute. 
 Still let me live as Love and Life were 
 
 one : 
 Still let me turn on earth a childlike 
 
 gaze. 
 And trust the whispered charities 
 
 that bring 
 Tidings of human truth ; with inward 
 
 praise 
 Watch the weak motion of each com- 
 mon thing. 
 And find it glorious — still let me 
 
 raise 
 On wintry wrecks, an altar to the 
 
 Spring. 
 
 HIDDEN JOYS. 
 
 Pleasures lie thickest where no 
 
 pleasures seem : 
 There's not a leaf that falls upon the 
 
 ground 
 But holds some joy, of silence or of 
 
 sound, 
 Some sprite begotten of a sunnner 
 
 dream. 
 The very meanest things are made 
 
 supreme 
 With innate ecstasy. Xo grain of 
 
 sand 
 But moves a bright and million- 
 peopled land, 
 And hath its Edens and its Eves, I 
 
 deem. 
 For Love, though blind himself, a 
 
 curious eye 
 Ilath lent me, to behold the hearts of 
 
 things. 
 And touched mine ear with power. 
 
 Thus far or nigh. 
 Minute or mighty, fixed, or free with 
 
 wings, 
 
802 
 
 BLUNT. 
 
 Delight from many a nameless covert 
 
 sly 
 Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar 
 
 sings. 
 
 THE ELOQUENT PASTOR DEAD. 
 
 He taught the cheerfulness that still 
 
 is ours 
 The sweetness that still lurks in 
 
 human powers ; 
 if heaven be full of stars, the earth 
 
 has flowers. 
 
 His was the searching thought, the 
 glowing mind ; 
 
 The gentle will, to others soon re- 
 signed ; 
 
 But, more than all, the feeling just 
 and kind. 
 
 His pleasures were as melodies from 
 reeds — 
 
 8weet books, deep nuisic and un- 
 selfish deeds. 
 
 Finding immortal flowers in human 
 weeds. 
 
 Trae to his kind, nor of himself 
 
 afraid. 
 He deemed that love of God was best 
 
 ari'ayed 
 In love of all the things that God has 
 
 made. 
 
 He deemed man's life no feverish 
 
 dream of care, 
 But a high pathway into freer air. 
 Lift up with golden hopes and duties 
 
 fair. 
 
 He showed how wisdom turns its 
 
 houi"s to years, 
 Feeding the heart on joys instead of 
 
 fears, 
 And M'orships God in smiles, and not 
 
 in tears. 
 
 His thoughts were as a pyramid up- 
 piled. 
 
 On whose far top an angel stood and 
 smiled — 
 
 Yet in his heart was he a simple 
 child. 
 
 Wilfred Blunt 
 
 (PliOTEUS). 
 
 TO OKE WHO WOULD MAKE A 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 Oh! leave the past to bury its own 
 
 dead; 
 The past is naught to us, the present 
 
 all. 
 What need of last year's leaves to 
 
 strew love's bed ? 
 What need of ghosts to grace a fes- 
 tival ? 
 I would not, if I could, those days 
 
 recall. 
 Those days not ours. For us the 
 
 feast is spread. 
 The lamps are lit, and music plays 
 
 withal. 
 Then let us love and leave the rest 
 
 unsaid. 
 This island is our home. Around it 
 
 roar 
 Great gulfs and oceans, channels, 
 
 straits, and seas. 
 What matter in what wreck we 
 
 reached the shoi-e. 
 So we both reached it? AYe can 
 
 mock at these. 
 Oh! leave the past, if past indeed 
 
 there be. 
 I would not know it. I would know 
 
 l)ut thee. 
 
 THE TWO HIGHWAYMEN. 
 
 I LONG have had a quarrel set with 
 
 Time, 
 Because he robbed me. Every day 
 
 of life 
 Was wrested from me after bitter 
 
 strife, 
 I never yet could see the sun go 
 
 down 
 But J was angry in my heart, nor 
 
 hear 
 The leaves fall in the wind without a 
 
 tear 
 Over the dying summer. I have 
 
 known 
 No truce with Time nor Time's ac- 
 complice. Death. 
 
BLUNT. 
 
 803 
 
 The fair world Is the witness of a 
 crime 
 
 Repeated every hour. For life and 
 breath 
 
 Are sweet to all who live; and bit- 
 terly 
 
 The voices of these robbers of the 
 heath 
 
 Sound in each ear and chill the passer- 
 by. 
 
 — What have we done to thee, thou 
 monstrous Time ? 
 
 What have we done to Death that we 
 must die ? 
 
 A DAY IN SUSSEX. 
 
 The dove did lend me wings. I fled 
 
 away 
 From the loud world which long had 
 
 troubled me. 
 Oh, lightly did I flee when hoyden 
 
 May 
 Threw her white mantle on the haw- 
 thorn tree. 
 I left the dusty highroad, and my way 
 Was through deejj meadows, shut 
 
 with copses fair. 
 A choir of thrushes poured its romid- 
 
 elay 
 From every hedge and every thicket 
 
 tliere. 
 Mild, moon-faced kine looked on, 
 
 where in the grass. 
 All heaped with flowers I lay, from 
 
 noon till eve; 
 And hares unwitting close to me did 
 
 pass. 
 And still the birds sang, and I could 
 
 not grieve. 
 Oh, what a blessed thing that evening 
 
 was! 
 Peace, nmsic, twilight, all that could 
 
 deceive 
 A soul to joy, or lull a heart to peace. 
 It glimmers yet across Avhole years 
 
 like these. 
 
 LAUGHTER AS D DEATH. 
 
 There is no laughter in the natural 
 
 world 
 Of beast or fish or bird, though no 
 
 sad doubt 
 
 Of their futurity to them unfurled 
 Has dared to check the mirth-com- 
 
 l)elling shout. 
 The lion roars his solemn thunder 
 
 out 
 To the sleeping Avoods. The eagle 
 
 screams her cry ; 
 Even the lark must strain a serious 
 
 throat 
 To hurl his blest defiance at the sky. 
 Fear, anger, jealousy have found a 
 
 voice ; 
 Love's pains or raptures the brute 
 
 bosom swell. 
 Nature has symbols for her nobler 
 
 Joys, 
 Her nobler sorrows. Who had dared 
 
 foretell 
 That only man. by some sad mock- 
 
 Should learn to laugh A\ho learns 
 that he must die ? 
 
 COLD COMFORT. 
 
 There is no comfort underneath the 
 
 sun. 
 Youth tiu-ns to age ; riches are quickly 
 
 spent ; 
 Pride breeds us pain, our pleasures 
 
 punishment; 
 The very courage which we count 
 
 upon 
 A single night of fever shall break 
 
 down ; 
 And love is slain by fear. Death last 
 
 of all 
 Spreads out his nets and watches for 
 
 our fall. 
 There is no comfort underneath the 
 
 sun! 
 — When thou art old, Oman, if thou 
 
 wert proud 
 Be humble; pride will here avail thee 
 
 not. 
 There is no courage which can con- 
 quer death. 
 Forget that thou wert wise. Nay, 
 
 keep thy breath 
 For prayer, that so thy wisdom be 
 
 forgot 
 And thou perhaps get pity of thy 
 
 God. 
 
804 
 
 BOKER. 
 
 George Henry Boker. 
 
 \_From " The Book of the Dead." ] 
 
 NEARNESS. 
 
 Through the dark path, o'er which 
 I tread, 
 One voice is ever at my ear, 
 One muffled form deserts the dead, 
 And haunts my presence far and 
 near. 
 
 In times of douht, he wliispers trust ; 
 
 In danger, drops a ^^•arning word; 
 And when I waver from the just. 
 
 His low, complaining sigh is heard. 
 
 He follows me, with patient tread. 
 From daybreak unto evening's 
 close; 
 
 He bends beside me, head by head, 
 To scent the violet or the rose. 
 
 And sharing thus my smallest deed. 
 When all tlie works of day are past. 
 
 And sleep becomes a blessed need, 
 He lies against my heart at last. 
 
 Dear ghost, I feel no dread of thee; 
 
 A gracious conu-ade thou art grown ; 
 Be near me, cheer, bend over me. 
 
 When the long sleep is settling 
 down ! 
 
 IN AUTUMN. 
 
 In hazy gold the hill-side sleeps. 
 The distance fades within the mist, 
 
 A cloud of lucid vapor creeps 
 Along the lake's pale amethyst. 
 
 The sun is but a blur of light, 
 The sky in ashy gray is lost ; 
 
 But all the forest-trees are bright. 
 Brushed by the pinions of the frost. 
 
 I hear the clamor of the crow, 
 The wild-ducks' far discordant cry. 
 
 As swiftly out of sight they go. 
 In wedges driving through the sky. 
 
 I know the sunshine of this hour, 
 AVarm as the glow of early May, 
 
 Will never wake the dying flower, 
 Xor breathe a spirit through decay. 
 
 The scarlet leaves are doomed to 
 fall. 
 
 The lake shall stiffen at a breath ; 
 The crow shall ring his dreary call 
 
 Above December's waste of death. 
 
 And so, thou bird of southern flight, 
 My soul is yearning for thy wings ; 
 
 I dread the thoughts that come to 
 light. 
 In gazing on the death of things. 
 
 Fain would I spread an airy plume. 
 For lands where endless summers 
 , reign. 
 
 And lose myself in tropic bloom. 
 And never think of death again. 
 
 MY ANSWEIi. 
 
 When I am turned to mouldering 
 dust, 
 And all my ways are lost in night, 
 When through me crocuses have 
 thrust 
 Their pointed blades, to find the 
 light; 
 
 And caught by plant and grass and 
 grain, 
 My elements are made a part 
 Of nature, and, through sun and 
 rain. 
 Swings in a flower my wayward 
 heart ; 
 
 Some curious mind may haply ask, 
 " Who penned this scrap of olden 
 song ? 
 
 Paint US the man whose Avoful task 
 Frowns in the i^ublic eye so long." 
 
 I answer, tndy as I can ; 
 
 I hewed the wood, the water drew; 
 I toiled along, a common man, — 
 
 A man, in all things, like to you. 
 
BOL TON— BRADDOCK. 
 
 805 
 
 Sarah K. Bolton. 
 
 ENTEIiED INTO REST. 
 
 Soldier, statesman, scholar, friend, 
 Brother to the lowliest one. 
 
 Life has come to sudden end, 
 But its work is grandly done. 
 
 Toil and cares of state are o'er; 
 
 I'ain and struggle come no more. 
 Rest thee by Lalce Erie. 
 
 Nations weep about thy bier, 
 
 Flowers are .sent by queenly hands; 
 
 Bring the poor tlieir homage here. 
 Come the great from many lands. 
 
 Be thy grave our Mecca, hence, 
 
 AVith its speechless eloquence; 
 Best thee by Lake Erie. 
 
 Winter snows will wrap thy mound, 
 .Spring will sejul its wealth of bloom, 
 
 Sunnner kiss the velvet ground, 
 Autumn leaves lie on thy tomb: 
 
 Iloine beside this inland sea. 
 
 Where thou lov'dst in life to be: 
 Best thee by Lalce Erie. 
 
 Strong for riglit, in danger brave. 
 Tender as witli woman's heart, 
 
 Champion of the fettered slave, 
 Of the people's life a part. 
 
 To be loved is higliest fame; 
 
 Garfield, an immortal name ! 
 
 Rest thee by Lake Erie. 
 
 All tliy gifted words shall be 
 Treasured speech from age to age ; 
 
 Thy heroic loyalty 
 
 Be a counti-y's heritage; 
 
 Mentor and tJiy precious ties 
 
 Sacred in the nation's eyes. 
 
 Rest thee by Lake Erie. 
 
 From thy life and deatli shall come 
 
 An ennobli'd, purer race, 
 Honoring labor, Avife. and liome; 
 
 More of cheer and Christian grace. 
 Kindest, truest ! till that day 
 When He rolls the stone away. 
 Rest thee by Lake Erie. 
 
 A. B. Boyle. 
 
 WIDOWED. 
 
 She did not sigh for death, nor make 
 sad moan. 
 
 Turning from smiles as one who 
 solace fears, 
 
 But filled with kindly deeds the wait- 
 ing years ; 
 
 Yet, in her heart of hearts, she lived 
 alone. 
 
 And in her voice there thrilled an 
 undertone 
 
 That seemed to rise from soundless 
 depths of tears; 
 
 As, when the sea is calm, one some- 
 times hears 
 
 The long, low murmur of a storm, 
 vmknown 
 
 Within the sheltered haven where he 
 stands. 
 
 While tokens of a tempest overpast 
 
 The changing tide brings to the 
 shining sands; 
 
 So on the surface of her life was cast. 
 
 An ever-present shadow of the day. 
 
 When love and joy went hand in 
 hand away. 
 
 Emily a. Braddock. 
 
 ^A' UNTHRIET. 
 
 Browx bird, with a wisp in your 
 mouth for your nest, 
 
 Away! away! you have found your 
 guest. 
 
 Golden-ringed bee, tlirough the air- 
 sea steer home. 
 
 The freight of sweets that lured you 
 to roam. 
 
 O reapers! well may you sing, to 
 hold 
 
 Your arms brimful of the grain's 
 bossed gold. 
 
 But what to me'that ye all go by ? 
 
 An untlirift, empty-handed, fare I, 
 
 Yet I heard, as I passed, the noise 
 of a rill; 
 
 In my lieart of hearts, it is singing 
 still, 
 
806 
 
 BRINE. 
 
 Blent with the wind's sough, the trill 
 
 of a bird, 
 A child's laugh and a gracious word, 
 Pictures I saw limned everywhere, 
 A light here and a shadow there — 
 A cloud, a stream, a flower small; 
 In my heart of hearts I have hid 
 
 them all ; 
 And some one, it may be, yet through 
 
 me 
 The songs shall hear and the pictures 
 
 see. 
 O brown bird, and bee, and reapers, 
 
 go by! 
 Richer than any of you am I. 
 
 Mary D. Brine. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 
 
 The woman was old and ragged and 
 gray. 
 
 And bent with the chill of the win- 
 ter's day: 
 
 The street was wet with a recent 
 
 snow. 
 And the woman's feet were aged and 
 
 slow. 
 
 She stood at the crossing and waited 
 
 long, 
 Alone, uncared-for, amid the throng 
 
 Of human beings who passed her 
 
 by, 
 
 Nor heeded the glance of her anxious 
 eye. 
 
 Down the street with laughter and 
 
 shout, 
 Glad in the freedom of " school let 
 
 out," 
 
 Came tlie boys like a flock of sheep, 
 Hailing the snow piled white and 
 deep. 
 
 Past the woman so old and gray 
 Hastened the children on their way. 
 
 Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
 So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 
 
 Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' 
 feet 
 
 Should crowd her down in the slip- 
 pery street. 
 
 At last came one of the merry troop — 
 The gayest laddie of all the group : 
 
 He paused beside her and whispered 
 
 low. 
 "I'll help you across if you wish to 
 
 go." 
 
 Her aged hand on his strong young 
 
 arm 
 She ijlaced, and so, without hurt or 
 
 harm. 
 
 He guided her trembling feet along, 
 Proud that his own were Arm and 
 strong. 
 
 Then back again to his friends he 
 went, 
 
 His young heart happy and well con- 
 tent. 
 
 " She's somebody's mother, boys, 
 
 you know. 
 For all she's aged and poor and slow ; 
 
 And I hope some fellow will lend a 
 
 hand 
 To help my mother, you understand. 
 
 If ever she's poor and old and gray. 
 When her own dear boy is far 
 away." 
 
 And "somebody's mother" bowed 
 
 low her head 
 In her home that night, and the 
 
 prayer she said 
 
 Was, "God be kind to the noble 
 
 boy 
 Who is somebody's son and pride and 
 
 joy." 
 
B r CHAN A X — B UNNEB. 
 
 807 
 
 Robert Buchanan. 
 
 n v/xn. 
 
 " O BAIRN, when I am dead, 
 How shall ye keep f rae harm ? 
 
 What hand will gie ye breatl ? 
 What lire will keep ye Mann ? 
 
 How shall ye dwell on earth awa' fra 
 me !" 
 " O mither, dinna dee! "' 
 
 " O bairn, by night or day 
 
 I hear nae sounds ava% 
 But voices of winds that blaw, 
 
 And the voices of ghaists that say, 
 Come awa' ! come awa' ! 
 The Lord that made the wind and 
 made the sea. 
 
 Is hard on my bairn and me. 
 And I melt in his breath like snaw." 
 
 " O mither, dinna dee! " 
 
 " O bairn, it is bvit closing up the een, 
 And lying down never to rise again. 
 Many a strong man's sleeping hae I 
 seen, — 
 There is nae pain ! 
 I'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken 
 why; 
 My summer has gone by. 
 And sweet were sleep, but for the 
 sake o' thee." 
 " O mither, dinna dee!" 
 
 [From Faces on the IVall.] 
 TO TlilFLERS. 
 
 Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, 
 
 oh. far 
 Be your thin monotone, your brows 
 
 flower-crowned, 
 Your backward-looking faces; for ye 
 
 mar 
 The pregnant time with silly sooth 
 
 of sound. 
 With flowers around the feverish 
 
 temples bound. 
 And withering in the close air of the 
 
 feast. 
 Take all the summer pleasures ye 
 
 have found. 
 
 While Circe-charmed ye turn to bird 
 
 and beast. 
 Meantime 1 sit apart, a lonely wight 
 On this bare rock amid this litful 
 
 sea. 
 And in the wind and rain I try to 
 
 light 
 A little lamp that may a beacon be. 
 Whereby poor ship-folk, driving 
 
 through the night, 
 May gain the ocean-course, and think 
 
 of me ! 
 
 H. C. BUNNER. 
 
 LOXGFELLOW. 
 
 Poet, whose sunny span of fruitful 
 years 
 Outreaches earth, whose voice 
 within our ears 
 Grows silent — shall we mourn for 
 thee ? Our sigh 
 Is April's breath, our grief is April's 
 tears. 
 
 If this be dying, fair it is to die: 
 Even as a garment weariness lavs 
 
 by, 
 
 Thou layest down life, to pass as time 
 hath passed. 
 From wintry rigors to a springtime 
 sky. 
 
 Are there tears left to give thee at 
 
 the last, 
 Poet of spirits crushed and hearts 
 
 downcast. 
 Loved of worn women who when 
 
 work is done 
 Weep o'er thy jxige in twilights 
 
 fading fast ? 
 
 Oh, tender-toned and tender- 
 hearted one. 
 
 We give thee to the season new 
 begun ! 
 Lay thy white head within the arms 
 of spring — 
 
 Thy song hadall her shower and 
 all her sun. 
 
Nay, let us not such sorrowful 
 
 tribute bring 
 Now that thy lark-like soul hatli 
 
 taken -wing: 
 A grateful memory fills and more 
 
 endears 
 The silence when a bird hath 
 
 ceased to sing. 
 
 TO A DEAD WOMAN. 
 
 Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at 
 life's end, 
 I have set on the face of Death in 
 trust for thee. 
 Through long years, keep it fresh on 
 thy lips, O friend! 
 At the gate of silence, give it back 
 to me. 
 
 in WIS RUSSELL. 
 
 Died in Xew Orleans, Dec, ISTS). 
 
 Small was thy share of all this 
 world's delight, 
 And scant thy poet's crown of flow- 
 ers of praise ; 
 Yet ever catches quaint of quaint 
 old days 
 Thou sang'st, and, singing, kept thy 
 
 spirit bright : 
 Even as to lips, the winds of winter 
 bite, 
 Some outcast Avanderer sets his flute 
 
 and plays 
 Till at his feet blossom the icy 
 ways. 
 And from the snowdrift's bitter 
 wasting white 
 He hears the uprising carol of the 
 lark, 
 Soaring from clover seas with 
 summer ripe — 
 While freeze upon his cheek 
 glad, foolish tears. 
 Ah ! let us hope that somewhere in 
 thy dark, 
 Herrick's full note, and Suck- 
 ling's pleasant pipe 
 Are sounding still their solace 
 in thine ears. 
 
 A WOMAS'S WAY. 
 
 She might have known it in the 
 earlier spring. 
 That all my heart with vague desire 
 was stirred ; 
 And, ere the summer winds had taken 
 wing. 
 I told her; but she smiled and said 
 no word. 
 
 The autumn's eager hand his red gold 
 grasped. 
 And she was silent; till from skies 
 grown drear 
 Fell soft one fine, first snoAv-flake, antl 
 she clasped 
 My neck, and cried, "Love, we 
 have lost a year!" 
 
 Thomas Burbidge. 
 
 AT DIVINE DISPOSAL. 
 
 Oil, leave thyself to God! and if, 
 
 indeed, 
 'Tis given thee to perform so vast a 
 
 task. 
 Think not at all — think not, but 
 
 kneel and ask. 
 O friend, by thought was never crea- 
 ture freed 
 From any sin, from any mortal 
 
 need : 
 Be patient ! not by thought canst thou 
 
 devise 
 What course of life for thee is right 
 
 and wise; 
 It will be written up, and thou wilt 
 
 read. 
 Oft like a sudden pencil of rich 
 
 light, 
 Piercing the thickest umbrage of the 
 
 wood. 
 Will shoot, amid our troubles infinite, 
 The spirit's voice; oft, like the balmy 
 
 flood 
 Of mom, sm-prise the universal night 
 With glory, and make all things 
 
 sweet and good. 
 
EVENTIDE. 
 
 Comes something down with even- 
 tide 
 
 Beside tlie sunset's golden bars, 
 Beside tlie floating scents, beside 
 
 The twinkling shadows of the stars. 
 
 Upon the river's rippling face. 
 Flash after flash the w liite 
 
 Broke up in man}' a shallow place ; 
 The rest was soft and bright. 
 
 By chance my eye fell on the stream; 
 
 How many a marvellous power. 
 Sleeps in us, — sleeps, and doth not 
 dream! 
 
 This knew 1 in that hour. 
 
 For then my heart, so full of strife, 
 No more was in me stirred ; 
 
 My life was in the river's life. 
 And I nor saw nor heard. 
 
 I and the river, we were one : 
 The shade beneath the bank, 
 
 I felt it cool; the setting sun 
 Into my spirit sank. 
 
 A rushing thing in power serene 
 
 I was ; the mystery 
 I felt of having ever been 
 
 And being still to be. 
 
 Was it a moment or an hour ? 
 
 I knew not ; but I mourned 
 When from that realm of awful power, 
 
 I to these fields returned. 
 
 William Henry Burleigh. 
 
 THE HA I! VES T- CA LL. 
 
 Abide not in the land of dreams, 
 O man, however fair it setMus, 
 Where dro\vsy airs thy powers repress 
 In languors of sweet idleness. 
 
 Nor linger in the misty past. 
 Entranced in visions vague and vast ; 
 But with clear eye the present scan, 
 And hear the call of God to man. 
 
 That call, though many-voiced, is 
 
 one. 
 With mighty meanings in each tone; 
 Through sob and laughter, shriek and 
 
 prayer, 
 Its summons meets thee everywhere. 
 
 Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, 
 Forgetful of thy Lord's commands; 
 From duty's claims no life is free, 
 Behold, to-day hath need of thee. 
 
 Look up ! the wide extended plain 
 Is billowy with its ripened grain; 
 And in the siunmer winds, are rolled 
 Its waves of emerald and gold. 
 
 Thrust in thy sickle, nor delay 
 The work that calls for thee to-day; 
 To-morrow, if it come, will bear 
 Its own demands of toil and care. 
 
 The present hour allots thy task ! 
 
 For ijresent strength and patience 
 ask. 
 
 And trust His love whose sure sup- 
 plies 
 
 Meet all thy needs as they arise. 
 
 Lo! the broad fields with harvest 
 
 white. 
 Thy hands to sti-enuous toil invite: 
 And he who labors and believes, 
 i Shall reap reward of ample sheaves. 
 
 Up! for the time is short; and soon 
 The morning sun will climb to noon. 
 Up! ere the herds, with trampling 
 
 feet 
 Outrunning thine, shaH spoil the 
 
 wheat. 
 
 Willie the day ling«-s. do thy best! 
 Full soon the night will bring its rest ; 
 And, duty done7 that rest shall be 
 Full of beatitudes to thee. 
 
 BAIX. 
 
 DASnixG in big drops on the narrow 
 pane, 
 king r 
 mind. 
 
 pane, 
 A.nd makinsf mournful music for the 
 
810 
 
 CHATTERTON— CHAUCEM. 
 
 While plays his interlude the wizard 
 
 wind, 
 I hear tlie ringing of the frequent 
 
 rain : 
 How doth its dreamy tone the spirit 
 
 kill, 
 liringing a sweet forgetfulness of 
 
 pain, 
 Willie busy thought calls up the past 
 
 again. 
 And lingers mid the pure and beau- 
 tiful 
 Visions of early childhood! Sunny 
 
 faces 
 Meet us with looks of love, and in 
 
 the moans 
 Of the faint wind we hear familiar 
 
 tones, 
 And tread again in old familiar 
 
 places! 
 Such is thy power, O rain ! the heart 
 
 to bless, 
 Wiling the soul away from its own 
 
 wretchedness. 
 
 Thomas Chatterton. 
 
 OiV RESIGXA TION. 
 
 () God, whose thunder shakes the 
 sky, 
 
 Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 
 To Thee, my only rock, I fly. 
 
 Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 
 
 The mystic mazes of Thy will. 
 The shadows of celestial light, 
 
 Are past the powers of human skill. 
 But what the Eternal acts, is right. 
 
 Oh. teach me in the trying hour, 
 W'lien anguish swells the dewy 
 tear, 
 
 'I'o still my sorrows, own thy power. 
 Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. 
 
 If in this bosom aught but Thee, 
 Encroaching, sought a boundless 
 sway, 
 
 Omniscience could the danger see. 
 And mercy look the cause away. 
 
 Then why, my soul, dost thou com- 
 plain ? 
 AVhy drooping, seek the dark re- 
 cess '? 
 Shake off the melancholy chain, 
 For God created all to bless. 
 
 But, ah ! my breast is hiunan still ; 
 
 The rising sigh, the falling teai-. 
 My languid vitals, feeble will. 
 
 The sickness of my soul declare. 
 
 But yet. with fortitude resigned. 
 
 ril thank the infliction of the blow. 
 Forbid my sigh, compose my mind. 
 
 Nor let the gush of misery flow. 
 
 The gloomy mantle of the night 
 Which on my sinking spirit steals 
 
 Will vanish at the morning light. 
 Which God, my East, my bun, re- 
 veals. 
 
 Geoffrey Chaucer. 
 
 THE PARSON. 
 
 A GOOD man there was of religion, 
 That was a poore panton of a town. 
 But rich he was of holy thought and 
 
 work ; 
 He was also a learned man, a clerk. 
 That Christes gospel truly woulde 
 
 preach ; 
 His parishens devoutly would he 
 
 teach ; 
 Benign he was, and wonder diligent. 
 And in adversity full patient; 
 And such he was yproved ofte 
 
 sitlies; 
 Full loth were him to cursen for his 
 
 tithes ; 
 But rather would he given out of 
 
 doubt 
 Unto his poor parishens about 
 Of his off' ring, and eke of his sub- 
 stance ; 
 He could in little thing have suflS- 
 
 sance : 
 Wide was his parish, and houses far 
 
 asunder. 
 
CHAUCER. 
 
 811 
 
 But he ne left nought for no rain nor 
 
 thunder, 
 In sickness and in mischief, to visit 
 Tlie fartliest in liis parish nnicli and 
 
 lite. 
 Upon his feet, and in his hand a 
 
 staff: 
 This nohle 'nsample to his sheep he 
 
 gaf. 
 That first he wrought, and after- 
 ward he taught. 
 Out of the gospel he the wordes 
 
 caught. 
 And this figure lie added eke thereto, 
 That, if gold ruste, what should iron 
 
 do ? 
 For, if a priest he foul on whom we 
 
 trust. 
 No wonder is a lewed man to rust ; 
 For shame it is, that if a priest take 
 
 keep 
 To see a "fouled" shepherd and 
 
 clean sheep: 
 Well ought a priest ensample for to 
 
 give 
 By his cleanness how his sheep should 
 
 live. 
 He sette not his benefice to hire, 
 And let his sheep accumbred in the 
 
 mire. 
 And ran unto London imto Saint 
 
 Ponle's 
 To seeken him a chantery for souls. 
 Or with a brotherhood to bewitliold; 
 But dwelt at home and kepte well his 
 
 fold. 
 So that the wolf ne made it not mis- 
 carry ; 
 lie was a shepherd and no mer- 
 cenary ; 
 As though he holy were and virtuous. 
 He was to sinful men not dispitous, 
 Ne of his speeche dangei-ous ne 
 
 digue; 
 But in his teaching discreet and 
 
 benign. 
 To drawen folk to heaven with faire- 
 
 ness. 
 By good ensample, was his business; 
 But it were any person obstinate. 
 What so he were of high or low 
 
 estate. 
 Him would he snibben sharply for 
 
 the nones: 
 
 A better priest I trow that no where 
 none is. 
 
 He waited after no pomp or rever- 
 ence, 
 
 Ne maked him no spiced conscience ; 
 
 But Christes lore, and his apostles 
 twelve 
 
 He taught, but first he followed it 
 himselve. 
 
 GOOD COUXSEL. 
 
 Fly fro the press, and dwell with 
 
 soothfastnesse. 
 SuflSce unto thy good though it be 
 
 small. 
 For hoard hath hate, and climbing 
 
 fickleness. 
 Press hath envy, and weal is blent 
 
 over all. 
 Savour no raoi'e than thee behove 
 
 shall. 
 Eede well thyself that other folke 
 
 canst rede ; 
 And truth thee shall deliver, it is no 
 
 drede. 
 
 Paine thee not each crooked to re- 
 dress 
 In trust of her that turneth as a 
 
 ban- 
 Great rest standeth in little busi- 
 
 nesse, 
 Beware also to spurne against an 
 
 awl, 
 Strive not as doth a crocke with a 
 
 wall; 
 Deeme thyself that demest others' 
 
 deed ; 
 And truth thee shall deliver, it is no 
 
 drede. 
 
 That thee is sent receive in buxom- 
 
 nesse ; 
 The wrastling of this world askelh a 
 
 fall. 
 Here is no home, here is but a wilder- 
 
 nesse. 
 Forth, pilgrim! forth, beast, out of 
 
 thy stall ! 
 Locke up on high, and thanke God 
 
 of all! 
 
812 
 
 CHENEY— COOK. 
 
 Waive tliy lusts, and let thy ghost 
 
 tiiee lead ; 
 And truth thee shall delivei', it is no 
 
 drede. 
 
 TO HIS EMPTY rURSE. 
 
 To you, my purse, and to none other 
 
 Avight 
 Complaine I, for ye be my lady dere, 
 I am sorry now that ye be light, 
 For, certes, ye now make me heavy 
 
 chere. 
 Me were as lefe laid upon a here, 
 For which unto your mercy thus I 
 
 crie, 
 Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 Now vouchsafe this day or it be 
 
 night. 
 That I of you the blissful sowne may 
 
 here, 
 Or see your color like the sunne 
 
 bright. 
 That of yelowness had never pere, 
 Ye be my life, ye be my hertes stere, 
 Queene of comfort and good com- 
 
 panie, 
 Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 Now purse, that art to me my lives 
 
 light, 
 And saviour, as downe in this world 
 
 here. 
 Out of this towne helpe me by youi- 
 
 might, 
 Sitli that you woll not be my treasure, 
 For I am shave as nere as any frere, 
 But I pray unto your courtesie. 
 Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. 
 
 John Vance Cheney. 
 
 MA Y. 
 
 When beeches brighten early May, 
 And young grass shines along her 
 
 Avay ; • 
 
 When April willows meet the bi'eeze 
 Like softest dawn among the trees: 
 
 When smell of spring fills all the air. 
 And meadows bloom, and blue-birds 
 
 pair; 
 When love first laves her sunny head 
 Over the brook and lily-bed; 
 Nothing of somid or sight to grieve 
 From cheering morn to quiet eve, 
 My heart will not. for all its ease, 
 Forget the days to follow these. 
 This loveliness shall be betrayed. 
 This happiest of music played 
 From field to field, by stream and 
 
 bough. 
 Shall silent be, as tuneful now; 
 The silver launch of thistles sail 
 Adown the solitary vale ; 
 The blue solicitude of sky 
 Bent over beauty doomed to die. 
 With nightly mist shall witness here 
 The yielded glory of the year. 
 
 Clarence Cook. 
 
 ON ONE WHO DIED IX MA Y. 
 (J. H. E., May 3, 1870). 
 
 Why, Death, what dost thou here. 
 
 This time o'year ? 
 Peach-blow and apple-blossom ; 
 Clouds, white as my love's bosom; 
 Warm wind o' the west 
 Cradling the robin's nest; 
 Yoimg meadows hasting their green 
 
 laps to fill 
 With golden dandelion and daffodil ; 
 These are fit sights for spring; 
 But, oh, tlioii hateful thing," 
 What dost thou here? 
 
 Why, Death, what dost thou here. 
 
 This time o' year ? 
 Fair, at the old oak's knee, 
 The young anemone; 
 Fair, the plash places set 
 With dog-tooth violet; 
 
 The first sloop-sail. 
 
 The shad-flower pale; 
 Sweet are all sights, 
 Sweet ai'e all sounds of spring; 
 But tho;i, thou nglv thing. 
 
 What dost' thou here? 
 
COOLIDOE. 
 
 813 
 
 Dark Death let fall a tear. 
 
 Why am I here ? 
 Oh, heart vnigrateful I Will man 
 
 never know 
 I am his friend, nor ever was his foe ? 
 Whose the sweet season, if it be not 
 
 mine "? 
 Mine, not the bobolink's, that song 
 
 divine. 
 Chasing the shadows o'er the flying 
 
 wheat ! 
 "Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds 
 
 so sweet. 
 AVHiose passionate heart burns in this 
 
 flaming rose 
 But his, whose passionate heart long 
 
 since lay still '? 
 Whose wan hope pales this snow- 
 like lily tall. 
 
 Beside the garden wall, 
 But his, whose radiant eyes and lily 
 
 grace, 
 .Sleep in the grave that crowns yon 
 
 tufted hill ? 
 
 All hope, all memory. 
 Have their deep springs in me; 
 And love, that else might fade, 
 By me immortal made. 
 Spurns at the grave, leaps to the wel- 
 coming skies. 
 And burns a steadfast star to stead- 
 fast eyes. 
 
 Susan Coolidge 
 
 (SARAH WOOLSEY). 
 
 ONE LESSER JOY. 
 
 What is the dearest happiness of 
 heaven ? 
 Ah , who shall say ! 
 So many wonders, and so wondrous 
 
 fair. 
 Await the soul who, just arrived 
 there 
 In trance of safety, sheltered and for- 
 given, 
 Opens glad eyes to front the eter- 
 nal day: 
 
 Relief from earth's corroding discon- 
 tent. 
 Relief from pain, 
 The satisfaction of perplexing 
 
 fears, 
 Full compensation for the long, 
 hard years. 
 Full understanding of the Lord's in- 
 tent, 
 The things that were so ijuzzling 
 made quite plain: 
 
 And all astonished joy as, to the spot. 
 From further skies, 
 Crowd our beloved with white 
 winged feet. 
 
 And voices than the chiming harps 
 more sweet. 
 
 Faces whose fairness we had half for- 
 got, 
 And outstretched hands, and wel- 
 come in their eyes. 
 
 Heart cannot image forth the endless 
 store 
 
 AVe may but guess. 
 But this one lesser joy I hold my 
 
 own : 
 All shall be known in heaven ; at 
 last be known 
 The best and worst of me; the less 
 the more. 
 My own shall know — and shall not 
 love me less. 
 
 Oh, haunting shadowy dread which 
 underlies 
 All loving here! 
 We inly shiver as we whisper 
 low, 
 "Oh, if they knew — if they could 
 
 only know. 
 Could see our naked souls without 
 disguise — 
 How they would shrink from us 
 and pale with fear." 
 
 The bitter thoughts we hold in leash 
 within 
 But do not kill ; 
 The petty anger and the mean de- 
 sire, 
 The jealousy ^\hich burns — a 
 smouldering Are — 
 
814 
 
 COOLIDQE. 
 
 The slimy trail of half-unnoted sin. 
 The sordid wish which daunts the 
 nobler will. 
 
 We fight each day with foes we dare 
 not name, 
 
 We fight, we fall! 
 Noiseless the conflict and unseen 
 
 of men ; 
 We rise, are beaten down, and rise 
 again, 
 And all the time we smile, we move 
 the same. 
 And even to dearest eyes draw close 
 the veil; 
 
 But in the blessed heavens these wars 
 are past ; 
 Disguise is o'er! 
 With new anointed vision, face to 
 
 face, 
 We shall see all, and clasped in 
 close embrace 
 Shall watch the haunting shadow flee 
 at last. 
 And know as we are known, and 
 fear no more. 
 
 MinACLE. 
 
 On ! not in strange portentous way 
 Christ's miracles were wrought of 
 old, 
 The common thing, the common clay 
 He touched and tinctured, and 
 straightway 
 It grew to glory manifold. 
 
 The barley loaves were daily bread 
 Kneaded and mixed with usual 
 skill; 
 \o care was given, no spell was said, 
 IJut when the Lord had blessed, they 
 fed 
 The multitude upon the hill. 
 
 The hemp was sown 'neath common 
 sun, 
 
 Watered by common dews and rain. 
 Of which the fisher's nets were spim; 
 Nothing was propliesied or done 
 
 To mark it from the other srain. 
 
 Coarse, brawny hands let down the 
 net 
 When the Lord spake and ordered 
 so; 
 They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet, 
 Just as in other days, and set 
 Their backs to labor, bending low ; 
 
 But quivering, leaping from the lake 
 The marvellous shining burdens 
 rise 
 Until the laden meshes break. 
 And all amazed, no man spake 
 But gazed with wonder in his eyes. 
 
 So still, dear Lord, in every place 
 
 Thou standest by the toiling folk, 
 With love and pity in Thy face. 
 And givest of Thy help and grace 
 To those who meekly bear the yoke. 
 
 Not by strange sudden change and 
 spell, 
 ]5affling and darkening nature's 
 face ; 
 Thou takest the things we know so 
 
 well 
 And bulkiest on them Thy miracle — 
 The heavenly on the common-place. 
 
 The lives which seem so poor, so low, 
 The hearts which are so cramped 
 and dull, 
 The baffled hopes, the impulse slow, 
 Thou takest, touchest all, and lo! 
 They blossom to the beautiful. 
 
 We need not wait for thunder-peal 
 Kesounding from a moimt of fire 
 While round our daily paths we feel 
 Thy sweet love and Thy power to heal 
 Working in us Thy full desire. 
 
 INFL UEXCE. 
 
 Couched in the rocky lap of hills 
 The lake's blue waters gleam. 
 
 And thence in linked and measured 
 rills 
 Down to the valley stream. 
 
 To rise again, led higher and higher, 
 
 And slake the city's hot desire. 
 
Ilii^li as the lake's bright ripples shine 
 
 iSo high the water goes ; 
 But not a drop that air-drawn line 
 
 Passes or overflows. 
 Though man may strive and man 
 
 may woo, 
 The stream to its own law is true. 
 
 Vainly the lonely tarn, its cup 
 Holds to the feeding skies; 
 
 Unless the source be lifted up. 
 The streandets cannot rise. 
 
 By law inexorably blent. 
 
 Each is the other's measurement. 
 
 Ah, lonely tarn! ah, striving rill! 
 
 So yearn these souls of ours. 
 And beat with sad and m-gent will 
 
 Against the unheeding i)owers. 
 In vain is longing, vain is force, 
 No stream goes higher than its som'ce. 
 
 Henry S, Cornwell 
 
 THE SPIDEH. 
 
 Spinner of the silken snare, 
 Fell Arachne in your lair. 
 Tell me, if your powers can tell 
 How you do your work so well ? 
 
 Weaving on in light and dark, 
 Segment and concentric arc. 
 Lace-like, gossamer designs. 
 Strict to geometric lines ; 
 
 Perfect to the utmost part, 
 Occult, exquisite of art, — 
 How are all these wonders bred 
 In your atom of a head ? 
 
 Propositions here involved 
 Wit of man has never solved; 
 Demonstrations hard to find 
 A.re as crystal to your mind. 
 
 How in deepest dungeon-glooms. 
 Do your Lilliputian looms 
 Work such miracles as these, — 
 Faultless, fairy filigrees ? 
 
 Careless flies that hither flit 
 Come to die ; but there you sit. 
 Feeling with your lingers fine 
 Each vibrating, pulse-like line; 
 
 Eager to anticipate 
 Hourly messages of fate, — 
 Fimeral telegrams that say 
 Here is feasting one more day? 
 
 Spider, only He can tell 
 How you do your work so well, 
 Who in life's mysterious ways 
 Knows the method of the maze. 
 
 THK U/iAGO^'-FLr. 
 
 When brooks of summer shallow 
 
 run. 
 And fiercely glows the ardent sun ; 
 Where waves the blue-flag tall and 
 
 dank. 
 And water-weeds grow rich and 
 
 rank, 
 The flaunting dragon-fly is seen, 
 A winged spindle, gold and green. 
 
 Born of the morning mists and 
 
 dews, 
 He darts — a flash of jewelled hues — 
 Athwart the waterfall, and flings, 
 P^rom his twice-duplicate wet wings, 
 Diamonds and sapphires such as 
 
 gleam 
 And vanish in a bridesmaid's dream! 
 
 Sail not, O dragon-fly. too near 
 The lakelet's bosom, dark and clear! 
 For, lurking in its deptlis below. 
 The hungry trout, thy fatal foe. 
 Doth watch to snatch thee, unaware. 
 At once from life, and light and air! 
 
 O brilliant fleck of siunmer's prime. 
 Enjoy thy brief, fleet span of time! 
 Full soon chill autumn's frosty 
 
 breath 
 Shall blow for thee a wind of death. 
 And dash to dust thy gaudy sheen — 
 Thy glittering mail of gold and 
 
 green ! 
 
81G 
 
 COXE — CRASHA W. 
 
 Arthur Cleveland Coxe. 
 
 WATCHWORDS. 
 
 We are living — we are dwelling 
 In a grand and awful time ; 
 
 In an age, on ages telling, 
 To be living — is sublime. 
 
 Hark ! the waking np of nations, 
 Gog and Magog to the fray : 
 
 Hark! what soundeth, is creation's 
 Groaning for its latter day. 
 
 Hark ! the onset ! will you fold yom- 
 Faith-clad arms in lazy lock ? 
 
 Up, oh, up ! for, dro^\•sy soldier. 
 Worlds are charging to the shock. 
 
 Worlds are charging — heaven be- 
 holding! 
 You have but an hour to fight: 
 Xow, the blazoned cross unfolding, 
 • On — right onward, for the right! 
 
 What! still hug your dreamy slum- 
 bers ? 
 'Tis no time for idling play, 
 Wreaths, and dance, and poet-num- 
 bers. 
 Flout them, we must work to-day ! 
 
 Oh! let all the soid within you 
 For the truth's sake go abroad! 
 
 Strike ! let every nerve and sinew 
 Tell on ages — tell for God! 
 
 Richard Crashaw. 
 
 LIXES OX A PltAYEn-BOOK SEXT 
 TO MRS. n. 
 
 Lo! here a little volume, but large 
 book, 
 (Fear it not, sweet. 
 It is no hypocrite) 
 Much larger in itself than in its look. 
 It is, in one rich handful, heaven and 
 all — 
 
 Heaven's royal hosts encamp' d thus 
 
 small ; 
 To prove that true, schools used to 
 
 tell, 
 A thousand angels in one point can 
 
 dwell. 
 
 It is love's great artillery. 
 
 Which here contracts itself, and 
 comes to lie 
 
 Close couched in yoiu' white bosom, 
 and from thence, 
 
 As from a snowy fortress of de- 
 fence, 
 
 Against the gliostly foe to take your 
 part. 
 
 And fortify the hold of your chaste 
 heart; 
 
 It is the armory of light : 
 
 Let constant use but keep it bright. 
 You'll find it yields 
 
 To holy hands and hiunble hearts, 
 More swords and shields 
 
 Than sin hath snares or hell hath 
 darts. 
 
 Only be sure 
 
 The hands be pure 
 That hold these weapons, and the 
 eyes 
 
 Those of turtles, chaste and true, 
 Wakeful and wise. 
 
 Here is a friend shall fight for 
 you. 
 Hold but this book before your 
 
 heart. 
 Let prayer alone to play his part. 
 But oh ! the heart 
 That studies this high art 
 Must be a sure housekeeper, 
 And yet no sleeper. 
 
 Dear soul, be strong, 
 Mercy will come ere long. 
 And bring her bosom full of bless- 
 ings — 
 Flowers of nevei- fading graces. 
 To make immortal dressings, 
 
 For worthy souls whose wise 
 embraces 
 Store up themselves for Him who is 
 
 alone 
 The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's 
 son. 
 
DE VERE — DODOE. 
 
 817 
 
 But if the noble Bridegroom, when 
 
 He come, 
 Shall find the wandering heart from 
 home, 
 
 Leaving her chaste abode 
 
 To gad abroad 
 Amongst the gay mates of the god of 
 flies; 
 
 To take her pleasure and to play, 
 
 And keep the devil's holiday; 
 
 To dance in the smishine of some 
 smiling 
 
 But beguiling 
 Sphere of sweet and sugared lies ; 
 Of all this hidden store 
 Of blessings, and ten thousand more 
 
 Doubtless he will unload 
 Himself some other where; 
 
 And pour abroad 
 His precious sweets. 
 On the fair soul whom first he meets. 
 
 O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear! 
 
 O ! happy, and thrice happy she. 
 Dear silver- breasted dove, 
 
 AVhoe'er she be, 
 Whose early love. 
 With winged vows. 
 Makes haste to meet her morning 
 
 spouse. 
 And close with his immortal kisses! 
 Happy soul ! who never misses 
 
 To improve that precious hour; 
 And every day 
 Seize her sweet prey. 
 All fresh and fragrant as he rises. 
 
 Dropping with a balmy shower, 
 A delicious dew of spices. 
 Oh ! let that happy soul hold fast 
 Her heavenly armful : she shall taste 
 
 At once ten thousand paradises : 
 She shall have power 
 To rifle and deflower 
 The i-icli and rosal spring of those 
 
 rare sweets. 
 Which with a swelling bosom there 
 
 she meets; 
 Boundless and infinite, bottomless 
 
 treasures 
 Of pure inebriating pleasures. 
 Happy soul ! she shall discover 
 
 What joy, what bliss. 
 
 How many heavens at once it is 
 To have a God become her lover. 
 
 Mary Ainge De Verb. 
 
 A LOVE SONG. 
 
 His love hath filled my life's fair cup 
 
 Full to its crystal brim ; 
 The dancing bubbles crowding up 
 
 Are dreams of him, 
 
 I work, and every thread I draw 
 
 Sets in a thought, — 
 The letter of I^ove's tender law 
 
 In patience wrought. 
 
 I serve his meals, — the fruit and 
 bread 
 
 Are sound and sweet : 
 But that invisible feast I spread 
 
 For gods w^ere meet ! 
 
 I pray for him. All else I do 
 
 Fades far away 
 Before the thrill that smites me 
 through, 
 
 The while I pray : 
 
 Ah, God, be good to him, my own. 
 
 Who, on my breast. 
 Sleeps, with soft dimpled hands out- 
 thrown, 
 
 A child at rest! 
 
 Mary B. Dodge. 
 
 LOSS. 
 
 I LOST my treasures one by one, 
 Those joys the world holds dear; 
 
 Smiling, I said " To-morrow's sun 
 Will bring us better cheer," 
 
 For faith and love were one. Glad 
 faith ! 
 
 All loss is naught save loss of faith. 
 
 My truant joys come trooping back, 
 And troo]>ing friends no less; 
 
 But tears fall fast to meet the lack 
 Of dearer happiness. 
 
 For faith and love are two. Sad 
 faith ! 
 
 'Tis loss indeed, the loss of faith. 
 
John Donne. 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly away, 
 And whisper to their souls to go; 
 AVhilst some of tlieir sad friends do 
 
 say, 
 The breatli goes now — and some say, 
 
 no; 
 
 So let us melt and make no noiso, 
 No tear-tloods, nor sigh-temiiests 
 
 move; 
 'Twere profanation of our joys 
 To tell the laity our love. 
 
 Moving of th' earth brings harms and 
 
 fears, 
 Men reckon what it did, and meant: 
 But trepidation of the spheres, 
 Though greater far is innocent. 
 
 Dull, suhlunarj^ lovers' love 
 '(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit 
 Absence, because it doth remove 
 Those tilings which alimented it. 
 
 But we're by love so much refined, 
 Tliat ourselves know not what it is, 
 Inter-assured of the mind. 
 Careless eyes, lips, and hands to miss. 
 
 Our two souls, therefore (which are 
 
 one), 
 Though I nuist go, endure not yet 
 A breach, but an expansion. 
 Like gold to airy tliinuess beat. 
 
 If they be two, they are two so 
 As stiff twin compasses are two ; 
 Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no 
 
 sliow 
 To move, but doth, if th' other do. 
 
 And though it in the centre sit, 
 Y(>t when the other far doth roam, 
 It leans, and hearkens after it. 
 And grows erect as that cojues home. 
 
 Such wilt thou be to me, who must 
 Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; 
 Thy firnmess makes my circles just, 
 -Vnd makes me end where I begvui. 
 
 Henry Ripley Dorr. 
 
 DOOR AND WINDOW. 
 
 There is a room, a stately room, 
 Now filled with light, now wrapped 
 in gloom. 
 
 There is a door, a steel-clad door. 
 Lined with masses of hammered ore, 
 
 Closed with a lock of Titan weight, 
 Opened only by hand of Fate ! 
 
 There is a window, broad and old, 
 Barred with irons of massive mould ; 
 
 Back from the window, closed and 
 
 fast, 
 Stretches the vista of the Past ; 
 
 A lengthening vista, faint and dim. 
 Reaching beyond the horizon's rim. 
 
 Men may wait at the window-sill 
 And listen, listen — but all is still. 
 
 Men may wait till their hairs are 
 
 Avhite, 
 Through the hours of day and night ; 
 
 Men may shower their tears like 
 
 rain 
 And mourn that they cannot pass 
 
 again ; 
 
 Over the pathway of the Past ; 
 
 But travelled first, it is travelled last ! 
 
 Turn Avith me to the iron door 
 Many a mortal has stood before! 
 
 Lift the latch ? It is fastened down ! 
 The hinges are flecked with a rusty 
 brown. 
 
 Batter away at its massive plates! 
 Hark! do you hear the mocking 
 Fates ? 
 
 'Tis only the echoes that go and 
 
 come 
 Like the measured beats of a muffled 
 
 drum ! 
 
DYER. 
 
 819 
 
 Your hands are bleeding ? Then 
 
 come away, 
 Perhaps, at length, you have learned 
 
 to-day 
 
 That only when under the grass or 
 
 snow 
 We learn what mortals must die to 
 
 know ; 
 
 That only when we are still and 
 
 cold 
 The door swings wide on its hinges 
 
 old! 
 
 Sir Edward Dyer. 
 
 MY MIXD TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 
 
 My mind to me a kingdom is ; 
 
 .Such perfect joy tlierein I find 
 As far exceeds all earthly bliss 
 
 That God or Nature hath assigned ; 
 Though much I want that most 
 
 would have. 
 Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 
 
 Content I live ; this is my stay. 
 
 I seek no more than may suffice. 
 I press to bear no haughty sway ; 
 Look, what I lack my mind sup- 
 plies. 
 Lo! tlius I triumph like a king! 
 Content with that my mind doth 
 bring. 
 
 I see how plenty surfeits oft. 
 
 And hasty climbers soonest fall; 
 I see that such as sit aloft 
 
 Mishap doth threaten most of all. 
 These get with toil, and keep with 
 
 fear ; 
 Such cares my mind could never 
 bear. 
 
 No princely pomp nor wealthy store. 
 No force to win the victory. 
 
 No wily Avit to salve a sore, 
 
 No shape to win a lover's eye, — 
 
 To none of these I yield as thrall ; 
 
 For why, my mind de.spiseth all. 
 
 Some have too much, yet still they 
 crave ; 
 I little have, yet seek no more. 
 They are but poor, though much they 
 have ; 
 And I am rich with little store. 
 They poor, I rich ; they beg, 1 give : 
 They lack, I lend ; they pine, I live. 
 
 I laugh not at another's loss, 
 I grudge not at another's gain : 
 
 No worldly wave my mind can toss ; 
 I brook that is another's bane. 
 
 I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; 
 
 I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 
 
 I joy not in no earthly bliss; 
 
 I weigh not Cra'sus' wealth a 
 straw ; 
 For care, I care not what it is : 
 
 I fear not fortune's fatal law; 
 My mind is such as may not move 
 For beauty bright, or force of love. 
 
 I wish but what I have at will ; 
 
 I M'ander not to seek for more : 
 Hike the plain, I climb no hill; 
 
 In greatest storms I sit on shore. 
 And laugh at them that toil in vain 
 To get what must be lost again. 
 
 I kiss not where I wish to kill ; 
 
 I feign not love where most I 
 hate ; 
 I break no sleep to win my will; 
 
 I wait not at the mighty's gate. 
 I scorn no poor, I fear no rich; 
 I feel no want, nor have too much. 
 
 The court nor cart I like nor loathe; 
 
 Extremes are counted worst of all ; 
 The golden mean betwixt them both 
 
 Doth surest sit, and fears no fall ; 
 This is my choice ; for why, I find 
 No wealth is like a quiet mind. 
 
 My wealth is health and perfect 
 ease ; 
 My conscience clear my chief de- 
 fence; 
 I never seek by bribes to please. 
 Nor by desert to give offence. 
 Thus do I live, thus will I die;' 
 Would all did so as well as 1 ! 
 
820 
 
 GALL A GHER — GA Y. 
 
 William D. Gallagher. 
 
 TWO APRILS. 
 
 When last the maple bud was swell- 
 ing? 
 When last the crocus bloomed 
 below, 
 Thy heart to mine its love was telling; 
 Thy soul with mine kept ebb and 
 flow : 
 Again the maple bud is swelling, 
 
 Again the crocus blooms below : — 
 In heaven thy heart its love is telling. 
 But still our souls keep ebb aiicl 
 flow. 
 
 When last the April bloom was fling- 
 ing 
 Sweet odors on the air of spring. 
 In forest aisles thy voice was ring- 
 ing, 
 Where thou didst with the red-bird 
 sing. 
 Again the April bloom is flinging 
 
 Sweet odors on the air of spring. 
 But now in heaven thy voice is ring- 
 ing? 
 Where thou dost with the angels 
 sing. 
 
 THE LAnORER. 
 
 Stand 
 
 •who 
 
 up, erect! Thou hast the 
 form 
 And likeness of thy God! 
 more '? 
 
 A soul as dauntless mid the storm 
 Of daily life, a heart as warm 
 And pure as breast e'er wore. 
 
 What then ? Thou art as true a man 
 As moves the human mass among; 
 As much a part of the great plan, 
 As Avith creation's dawn began, 
 As any of the throng. 
 
 Who is thine enemy ? The high 
 
 In station, or in wealth the chief ? 
 The great, who coldly pass thee by, 
 With proud step and averted eye ? 
 Xay ! ruu-se not such belief. 
 
 If true unto thyself thou wast. 
 
 What were the proud one's scorn to 
 thee ? 
 
 A feather, which thou mightest cast 
 
 Aside, as idly as the blast. 
 The light leaf from the tree. 
 
 No : — imcurbed passions, low desires, 
 
 Absence of noble self-respect. 
 Death, in the breast's consuming fires, 
 To that high nature which aspires 
 Forever, till thus checked ; 
 
 These are thine enemies — thy worst; 
 
 They chain thee to thy lonely lot: 
 Thy labor and thy lot accursed. 
 Oh ! stand erect, and from them burst, 
 
 And longer suffer not. 
 
 Thou art thyself thine enemy. 
 
 The great! what better they than 
 thou ? 
 As theirs, is not thy will as free? 
 Has God with equal favors thee 
 
 Neglected to endow. 
 
 True, wealth thou hast not — 'tis but 
 dust ! 
 Nor place — uncertain as the wind ! 
 But that thou hast, Avhich, with thy 
 
 crust 
 And water, may despise the lust 
 Of both — a noble mind. 
 
 With this, and passions under ban, 
 True faith, and holy trust in God, 
 
 Thou art the peer of any man. 
 
 Look up, then, that thy little span 
 Of life may be well trod. 
 
 William Wheeler Gay, 
 
 APOLLO DELVEDERE. 
 
 SuPKEME among a race of gods he 
 stands. 
 His strong limbs strained and 
 quivering with might; 
 His heart exulting, as his foemen's 
 bands 
 Before the dreadful «gis, melt in 
 flight. 
 
OOSSE. 
 
 821 
 
 So once bestrode on red Scamander's 
 plain 
 Breasting at Hector's side the storm 
 of spears ; 
 Perchance in dreams he shakes the 
 shield again 
 And, shouting, fills the Grecian 
 host with fears. 
 
 Far-darting god of Homer, dost thou 
 dream 
 That Time still wears a crown of 
 sunny hair ? 
 That dawn-faced Daphne sings by 
 Peneus' stream, 
 And Dian routs the roebuck from 
 his lair ? 
 
 • 
 
 Know, shrineless god, that temples 
 sink to dust ; 
 Creeds moulder with the heart that 
 gave them birth ; 
 Time is a despot, and gods, even, 
 nuist 
 Bow to his will like mortals of the 
 earth. 
 
 Look close! the crowds that throng 
 this Belvedere 
 Are not gray-bearded elders laden 
 well 
 With costly gifts, from Athens sent 
 to hear 
 The fateful murmurs issue from thy 
 cell. 
 
 No longer now they tremble as they 
 stand 
 Before thy face, remembering 
 Niobe; 
 Nor reverence thee, but him whose 
 mortal hand 
 Gave thee the gift of immortality. 
 
 Edmund W. Gosse, 
 
 VILLANELLE. 
 
 WouLDST thou not be content to die 
 When low-lumg fruit is hardly 
 clinging 
 And golden autumn passes by ? 
 
 If we could vanish, thou and 1 
 While the last woodland bird is 
 singing, 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 
 
 Deep drifts of leaves in the forest lie. 
 Red vintage that the frost is fling- 
 ing, 
 And golden autumn passes by. 
 
 Beneath this delicate, rose-gray sky. 
 While sunset bells are faintly ring- 
 inc 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 
 
 For Avintry webs of mist on high 
 Out of the muffled earth are spring- 
 ino- 
 
 And golden autumn passes by. 
 
 Oh, now, when pleasures fade and fly. 
 And hope her southward flight "is 
 winging, 
 Wouldst thou not be content to die ? 
 
 Lest winter come, with wailing cry, 
 
 His cruel, icy bondage bringing, 
 AVhen golden autumn hath passed by, 
 
 And thou with many a tear and sigh. 
 While Life her wasted hands is 
 A\ringing, 
 Shalt pray in vain for leave to die 
 AVhen golden autumn hath passed by. 
 
 SUNSHINE IN MARCH. 
 
 Where are you, Sylvia, where ? 
 
 For our own bird the woodpecker, is 
 here. 
 
 Calling on you with cheerful tap- 
 pings loud ! 
 
 The breathing heavens are full of 
 liquid light; 
 
 The dew is on the meadow like a 
 cloud ; 
 
 The earth is moving in her green 
 delight — 
 
 Her spiritual crocuses shoot through. 
 
 And rathe hepaticas in rose and blue; 
 
 But snow-drops that awaited you so 
 long 
 
 Died at the thrush's song. 
 
822 
 
 ORAY. 
 
 " Aflieu, adieu!" they said, 
 
 " We saAY the skirts of glory fade; 
 
 We were the hopeless lovers of the 
 
 spring, 
 Too young, as yet, for any love of 
 
 ours ; 
 She is harsh, not having heard the 
 
 white-throats sing; 
 She is cold, not knowing the tender 
 
 April showers; 
 Yet have we felt her, as the buried 
 
 grain 
 May feel the rustle of the luifallen 
 
 rain; 
 We have known her, as the star that 
 
 sets too soon 
 Bows to the unseen moon." 
 
 David Gray. 
 
 DIE DOU'X, O DISMAL DA}'. 
 
 Die down, O dismal day, and let me 
 
 live; 
 And come, blue deeps, magnificently 
 
 strewn 
 With colored clouds, —large light, 
 
 and fugitive, — 
 By upper winds through pompous 
 
 motions blown. 
 Now it is death in life, — a vapor 
 
 dense 
 Creeps round my window till I cannot 
 
 see 
 The far snow-shining mountains and 
 
 the glens 
 Shagging the mountain-tops. O God ! 
 
 make free 
 This barren shackled earth, so deadly 
 
 cold, — 
 Breathe gently forth thy spring, till 
 
 winter flies 
 In rude amazement, fearful and yet 
 
 bold, 
 While she performs her customed 
 
 charities; 
 I weigh the loaded hours till life is 
 
 bare, — 
 O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, 
 
 and sweet air! 
 
 IF IT MUST BE. 
 
 If it must be — if it must be, O 
 God! 
 
 That I die young and make no further 
 moans; 
 
 That underneath the unrespective 
 sod. 
 
 In unescutcheoned privacy, my bones 
 
 Shall crumble soon ; — then give me 
 strength to bear 
 
 The last convulsive throe of too 
 sweet breath ! 
 
 I tremble from the edge of life, to 
 dare 
 
 The dark and fatal leap, having no 
 faith, 
 
 No gloriou^yearning for the Apoc- 
 alypse; 
 
 But like a child that in the niglit- 
 time cries 
 
 For light, I cry; forgetting the eclipse 
 
 Of knowledge and our human des- 
 tinies — 
 
 O peevish and uncertain soul ! obey 
 
 The law of patience till the Day. 
 
 WINTRY WEATHER. 
 
 O WINTEIJ, wilt thou nevei', never 
 
 go? 
 O summer, but I weary foi- thy 
 
 coming. 
 Longing once more to hear the Luggie 
 
 flow, 
 And frugal bees laboriously hum- 
 ming. 
 Now the east wind diseases the 
 
 infirm. 
 And I must crouch in corners from 
 
 rough weather. 
 Sometimes a winter sunset is a 
 
 charm — 
 When the fired clouds compacted, 
 
 burn together. 
 And the large sun dips red behind the 
 
 hills. 
 I, from my window can behold this 
 
 pleasure; 
 And the eternal moon what time she 
 
 fills 
 Her orb -with argent, treading a soft 
 
 measure, 
 
GBA Y — HA VERGAL. 
 
 828 
 
 With queenly motions of a bridal 
 
 His eye is like a clear 
 
 mood, 
 
 
 Keen flame that searches thi-ough 
 
 Through the wide spaces of infini- 
 
 me; I must drop 
 
 tude. 
 
 
 Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his 
 sphere ; 
 To mine he cannot stoop. 
 
 I win not my desire. 
 
 Ellis Gray. 
 
 
 And yet I fail not of my guerdon ; lo ! 
 A thousand flickering darts ami 
 
 SUNSHINE. 
 
 
 tongues of fire 
 Around me spread and glow ; 
 
 I SAT in a darkened chamber, 
 
 
 
 Near by sang a tiny bird ; 
 
 
 All rayed and crowned, I miss 
 
 Through all my deep pain and 
 
 sad- 
 
 No queenly state until the summer 
 
 ness, 
 
 
 wane. 
 
 A wonderful song I heard. 
 
 
 The hours flit by ; none knoweth of 
 my bliss, 
 
 The birdling bright sang in the 
 light 
 From out of a golden throat; 
 
 sun- 
 
 And none has guessed my pain ; 
 
 
 I follow one alone, 
 
 The song of love he was singing 
 
 
 r track the shadow of his steps, I 
 
 Grew sweeter with every note. 
 
 
 grow 
 Most like to him I love. 
 
 I opened my casement wider 
 
 
 Of all that shines below. 
 
 To welcome the song I heard ; 
 
 
 
 straight into my waiting bosom 
 
 rd. 
 
 
 Flew simshine and song and b 
 
 
 No longer I now am sighing; 
 
 
 Frances Ridley Havergal. 
 
 The reason canst thou divine ? 
 
 
 
 The birdling with me abideth, 
 
 
 A UTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 And sunshine and song are mine. 
 
 
 
 
 AtTTOBiOGRAPHY! So you Say, 
 
 
 
 So do I Ri>t believe! 
 For no men or women that live to- 
 
 
 
 
 
 day, 
 
 
 
 Be they as good or as bad as they 
 
 Dora Greenwell 
 
 
 may, 
 Ever would dare to leave 
 
 THE SUNFLOWER. 
 
 
 In faintest pencil or boldest inlc. 
 All they truly and really think: 
 
 Till the slow daylight pale, 
 
 
 What they have said and what they 
 
 A willing slave, fast bound to 
 
 one 
 
 have done. 
 
 above, 
 
 
 What they have lived and what they 
 
 I wait; he seems to speed, 
 
 and 
 
 have felt. 
 
 change, and fail ; 
 
 
 Under the stars or under the sun. 
 
 I know he will not move. 
 
 
 At the touch of a pen the dew- 
 drops melt, 
 
 I lift my golden orb 
 
 
 And the jewels are lost in the grass. 
 
 To his, unsmitten when the roses 
 
 die. 
 
 Though you count tlie blades as 
 
 And in my broad and burning 
 
 disk 
 
 you pass. 
 
 absorb 
 
 
 At the touch of a pen the lightninr; 
 
 The splendors of his eye. 
 
 
 is fixed, 
 
824 
 
 HAVERGAL. 
 
 An innocent streak on a broken 
 
 cloud ; 
 And the thunder that pealed so 
 fierce and loud, 
 With musical echo is softly mixed. 
 Autobiography ? No ! 
 It never was written yet, I trow. 
 Grant that they try ! 
 Still they must fail ! 
 Words are too pale. 
 For the fervor and glow of the lava- 
 flow. 
 
 Can they paint the Hash of an 
 
 eye? 
 How much less the flash of a heart. 
 Or its delicate ripple and glimmer 
 
 and gleam, 
 Swift and sparkling, suildenly dark- 
 ling. 
 Crimson and gold tints, exquisite 
 
 soul-tints. 
 Changing like dawn-flush touching 
 
 a dream ! 
 Where is the art 
 That shall give the play of blending 
 
 lights 
 From the porphyry rock on the 
 
 pool below ? 
 Or the bird-shadow traced on the 
 
 sunlit heights 
 Of golden rose and snow ? 
 
 You say 'tis a fact that the books 
 
 exist. 
 Printed and published in Mudie's 
 list, 
 Some in two volumes, and some in 
 one — 
 Autobiographies plenty. But look ! 
 I will tell you what is done 
 By the writers, conttdentially! 
 They cut little pieces out of their 
 lives 
 And join them together, 
 !\[aking them up as a readal)le book. 
 
 And call it an autobiography, 
 Though little enough of the life sur- 
 vives. 
 
 What if we went in the sweet May 
 
 weather 
 To a wood that 1 know which hangs 
 
 on a hill. 
 
 And reaches down to a tinkling 
 
 brook, 
 That sings the flowers to sleep at 
 
 night. 
 And calls them again with the earliest 
 
 light. 
 Under the delicate flush of green. 
 Hardly shading the bank below, 
 Pale anemones peep between 
 
 The mossy stumps where the 
 violets grow; 
 Wide clouds of bluebells stretch 
 away, 
 And primrose constellations rise, — 
 
 Turn where we may. 
 Some new loveliness meets our 
 eyes. 
 The first white butterflies flit around. 
 Bees are murnuuing close to the 
 ground. 
 The cuckoo's happy shout is heard. 
 
 Hark again ! 
 Was it echo, or was it bird ? 
 All the air is full of song, 
 A carolling chorus aroimd and above: 
 From the wood-pigeon's call so soft 
 
 and long, 
 To merriest twitter and marvellous 
 
 trill, 
 Every one sings at his own sweet 
 
 will. 
 True to the key-note of joyous love. 
 
 Well, it is lovely I is it not ? 
 But Ave nuist not stay on the fairy 
 si)ot. 
 So wa gather a nosegay with care : 
 A primrose here and a- bluebell 
 there, 
 And something that we have never 
 seen. 
 Probably therefore a specimen 
 rare ; 
 Stitch wort, with stem of transparent 
 green. 
 The white-veined woodsorrel, and 
 
 a spray 
 Of tender-leaved and budding May. 
 We carry home the fragrant load. 
 In a close, warm hand, by a dusty 
 
 road ; 
 The sun grows hotter every hour; 
 Already the woodsorrel pines for the 
 shade ; 
 
HAVER GAL. 
 
 825 
 
 We watch it fade, 
 And throw away the fairy little 
 
 flower ; 
 We forgot that it eoiild not last an 
 
 hour 
 Away from the cool moss where it 
 
 grows. 
 Then the stitch worts di'oop and close ; 
 There is notliing to show hut a tangle 
 
 of green, 
 For the white-rayed stars will no 
 
 more be seen. 
 Then the anemones, can they siu- 
 
 vive ? 
 Even now they are hardly alive. 
 Ha! where is it, our unknown spray ? 
 
 Dropped on the way ! 
 Perhaps we shall never find one 
 
 again. 
 At last we come in with the few that 
 are left. 
 Of freshness and fragrance bereft; 
 A sorry display. 
 Now, do we say, 
 " Here is the wood where we rambled 
 
 to-day ? 
 See, we have brought it to you; 
 Believe us, indeed it is true. 
 This is the wood ! " do we say ? 
 
 So much for the bright and pleasant 
 
 side. 
 There is another. We did not bring 
 All that was hidden under the wing 
 Of the radiant plumageil sjidng. 
 
 AVe never tried 
 To spy, or watch, or away to bear. 
 Much that was just as truly thei'e. 
 What have we seen ? 
 Hush, ah, hush! 
 Curled and withered fern between. 
 And dead leaves unc\er the living 
 
 green. 
 Thick and damp. A clammy feather, 
 All that remains of a singing thrush 
 Killed by a weasel long ago. 
 In the hungry winter weather. 
 Nettles in unfriendly row. 
 And last year's brambles, sharp and 
 
 brown. 
 Grimly guarding a hawthorn crown. 
 A pale leaf trying to reach the light 
 By a long weak stem, but smothered 
 
 down. 
 
 Dying in darkness, with none to see. 
 The rotting trunk of a willow tree. 
 Leafless, ready to fall from the bank ; 
 A poisonous fungus, cold and white. 
 And a hemlock growing strong and 
 
 rank. 
 A tuft of fur and a ruddy stain. 
 Where a wounded hare has escaped 
 
 the snare. 
 Only i)erhaps to be caught again. 
 No specimens we bring of these. 
 Lest they should disturb our ease, 
 And spoil the story of the May, 
 And make you think our holiday 
 Was far less pleasant than we say. 
 
 All no! We write our lives indeed. 
 But in a cipher none can read. 
 Except the author. He may pore 
 The life-accunudating lore 
 
 For evermore. 
 And find the records strange and 
 
 true. 
 Bring wisdom old and new ; 
 But tliough he break the seal. 
 No power has he to give the key; 
 No license to reveal. 
 We wait the all-declaring day. 
 When love shall know as it is 
 known. 
 Till then, the secrets of our lives are 
 ours and God's alone. 
 
 SONG FROM " nrOHT." 
 
 Light after darkness, 
 
 Gain after loss. 
 Strength after suffering, 
 
 Crown after cross. 
 Sweet after bitter. 
 
 Song after sigh. 
 Home after wandering, 
 
 Praise after cry. 
 
 Sheaves after sowing. 
 
 Sun after rain, 
 Sigh after mystery, 
 
 Peace after pain. 
 Joy after sorrow, 
 
 Calm after blast, 
 Rest after weariness, 
 
 Sweet rest at last. 
 
Xear after distant, 
 
 Gleam after gloom, 
 Love after loneliness, 
 
 Life after tomb. 
 After long agony. 
 
 Rapture of bliss! 
 Binlit was the pathway 
 
 Leading to this ! 
 
 FliOm "MAKING POETUr:' 
 
 'Tis not stringing rhymes together 
 
 In a pleasant true accord ; 
 Not the music of the metre. 
 Not the happy fancies, sweeter 
 Than a flower-bell, honey-stored. 
 
 'T is the essence of existence, 
 
 Rarely rising to the light; 
 And the songs of echo longest. 
 Deepest, fullest, truest, strongest. 
 
 With your life-blood you will write. 
 
 With yotn- life-blood. None will 
 know it. 
 
 You will never tfll them how. 
 Smile! and they will never guess it: 
 Laugh! and you will not confess it 
 
 By your paler cheek and brow. 
 
 There must be the tightest tension 
 
 Ere the tone be full and true ; 
 Shallow lakelets of emotion 
 Are not like the spirit-ocean. 
 Which reflects the purest blue. 
 
 Every lesson you shall utter. 
 
 If the charge indeed be yours. 
 
 First is gained by earnest learning. 
 
 Carved in letters deep and burning 
 
 On a heart that long endures. 
 
 Day by day that wondrous tablet 
 Your life-poem shall receive. 
 
 By the hand of .Toy or Sorrow ; 
 
 But tlie pen can never borrow 
 Half the records that they leave. 
 
 You will only give a transcript 
 Of a life-line here and there. 
 Only just a spray-wreath springing 
 From the hidden depths, and flinging 
 Broken rainbows on the air. 
 
 Still, if you but copy truly. 
 
 'T will be poetry indeed, 
 Echoing many a heart's vibration; 
 Rather love than admiration 
 
 Earning as your priceless meed. 
 
 THE COL DE BALM. 
 
 Sunshine and silence on tlie Col de 
 Balm! 
 I stood above the mists, above the 
 
 rush 
 Of all the torrents, when one mar- 
 vellous hush 
 
 Filled God's great moimtain temple, 
 vast and calm. 
 
 With hallelujah light, as seen through 
 silent psalm: — 
 
 Crossed Avith one discord, only one. 
 
 For love 
 Cried out, and would be heard. 
 
 "If ye were here, 
 O friends, so far away and yet so 
 
 near. 
 Then were the anthem perfect!" 
 
 And the cry 
 Threaded the concords of that Alpine 
 
 harmony. 
 
 Not vain the same fond cry if first I 
 
 stand 
 Upon the mountain of our God, and 
 
 long. 
 Even in the gloiy and with His 
 
 new song 
 Upon my lips, that you should come 
 
 and share 
 The bliss of heaven, imperfect still 
 
 till all are there. 
 
 Dear ones ! shall it be mine to watch 
 you come 
 Up from the shadows and the val- 
 ley mist. 
 To tread the jacinth and the ame- 
 thyst; 
 
 To rest and sing upon the stormless 
 height, 
 
 In the deep calm of love and ever- 
 lasting light ? 
 
HAYNE — IIILLARD. 
 
 ^'11 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. 
 
 LYRIC OF ACTIOX. 
 
 'Tis the part of a coward to brood 
 O'er the past that is withered and 
 dead : 
 What though the heart's roses are 
 aslies and dust ? 
 What though the heart's music be 
 
 fled? 
 Still shine the grand heavens o'er- 
 head, 
 Whence the voice of an angel thrills 
 
 clear on the soul, 
 " Gird about thee thine armor, press 
 on to the goal! " 
 
 If the faults or the crimes of thy 
 youth 
 Are a burden too heavy to bear, 
 What hope can rebloom on the deso- 
 late waste 
 Of a jealous and craven despair ? 
 Down! down with the fetters of 
 fear ! 
 In the strength of thy valor and man- 
 hood arise. 
 With the faith that illumes and the 
 will that defies. 
 
 Too late! through God's infinite 
 world, 
 From His throne to life's nether- 
 most fires. 
 Too late is a phantom that flies at 
 the dawn 
 Of the soul that repents and as- 
 pires. 
 If pure thou hast made thy de- 
 sires, 
 There's no height the strong M'ings 
 
 of innnortals may gain 
 Which in striving to reach, thou shalt 
 strive for in vain. 
 
 Then up to the contest with fate. 
 Unbound by the past which is 
 dead! 
 What though the heart's roses are 
 ashes and dust ? 
 What though the heart's music be 
 fled? 
 ytill shine the fair heavens o'erhead; 
 
 And sublime as the angel that rules 
 
 in the sim 
 Bqams the promise of peace when the 
 
 conflict is won ! 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 FliOM THE "ELIXIR." 
 
 TEAf;ii me, my God and King, 
 
 In all things Thee to see. 
 And what I do in anything. 
 
 To do it as for Thee. 
 
 All may of Thee partake; 
 
 Nothing can be so mean 
 Which with this tincture, for Thy 
 sake. 
 
 Will not grow bright and clean. 
 
 A servant with this clause 
 
 Makes drudgery divine: 
 Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws. 
 
 Makes that and the action fine. 
 
 Aaron Hill. 
 
 HOW TO DEAL WITH COMMON 
 NATURES. 
 
 TENDER-handed stroke a nettle, 
 And it stings you for yoxn- pains ; 
 
 Grasp it like a man of mettle. 
 And it soft as silk remains. 
 
 'Tis the same with common natures: 
 Use them kindly, they rebel ; 
 
 But be rough as nutmeg-graters. 
 And the rogues obey you well. 
 
 F. A, HiLLARD. 
 
 THE POET'S PEN. 
 
 I A M an idle reed ; 
 I rustle in the whispering air; 
 
 I bear my stalk and seetl 
 Through spring-time's glow and sum- 
 mer's glare. 
 
828 
 
 HOPKINS. 
 
 And in the fiercer strife 
 Wliich winter brings to ine amain, 
 
 Sapless, 1 waste my lite. 
 And, murmuring at my fate, com- 
 plain. 
 
 I am a worthless reed ; 
 No golden top have I for crown, 
 
 No flower for beauty's meed. 
 No wreath for poet's high renown. 
 
 Hollow and gaunt, my wand 
 hlirill whistles, bending in the gale; 
 
 Leafless and sad I stand, 
 And still neglected, still bewail. 
 
 O foolish reed ! to wail ! 
 A poet came, with downcast eyes. 
 
 And, wandering through the dale. 
 Saw thee and claimed thee for his 
 prize. 
 
 He plucked thee from the mire ; 
 He pruned and made of thee a pen. 
 
 And wrote in words of Are 
 His flaming song to listening men ; 
 
 Till thou, so lowly bred, 
 Now wedded to a nobler state, 
 
 Utt'rest such pieans overhead 
 That angels listen at their gate. 
 
 Louisa Parsons Hopkins, 
 
 TEMPESTUOUS DEEPS. 
 
 Passionate, stormy ocean. 
 
 Spreading thine arms to me. 
 The depths of my soul's emotion 
 
 Surge with the surging sea: 
 Waves and billows go o'er me. 
 
 Give me thy strong right hand ! 
 The throes of my heart's vain struggle 
 
 I know thou wilt imderstand. 
 
 Break with thy hidden anguish, 
 
 Kestless and yearning main ! 
 Echo my sighs; I languish. 
 
 Moaning in secret pain. 
 The heart I had trusted fails me. 
 
 The hopes I would rest in, flee; 
 "Woe upon woe assails me. 
 
 Comfort me, answering sea ! 
 
 Mightily tossed with tempest, 
 
 Lashed into serried crest. 
 Roaring and seething billows 
 
 Give thee nor peace nor rest : 
 Oh, to thy heaving bosom 
 
 Take me, wild sobbing sea ! 
 For the whole earth's groaning and 
 travail 
 
 Utters itself in thee. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 Blow, northern winds! 
 To bi'ace my fibres, knit my cords, 
 To gird my soul, to fire my words, 
 To do my work, — for 't is the 
 Lord's, — 
 
 To fashion minds. 
 
 Come, tonic blasts ! 
 Arouse my courage, stir my thought. 
 Give nerve and spring, that as 1 ought 
 I give my strength to what is wrought. 
 
 While duty lasts. 
 
 Glow, arctic light. 
 And let my heart with burnished 
 
 steel. 
 That bright magnetic flame reveal 
 Which kindles purpose, faith, and 
 zeal 
 For truth and right. 
 
 Shine, winter skies ! 
 That when each brave day's work is 
 
 done, 
 I wait in i^eace, from sun to sun, 
 To meet unshamed, through victory 
 won. 
 Your starry eyes. 
 
 [From Perxephonc] 
 EARLY SUMMER. 
 
 The chrysalid with rapture stirs; 
 The A\ater-beetle feels more nigh 
 His glory of the di-agon-fly. 
 
 And nectar fills the flower-spurs. 
 
 Down in the confidential green 
 Of clover-fields the insects hum, 
 AVhile myriad creatures pipe and 
 drum. 
 
 And live their busy life unseen. 
 
HOPKINS. 
 
 829 
 
 The flowers of the Indian corn 
 Droop their fair feathers o'er the 
 
 sheatli, 
 And all their pollen grains bequeath 
 
 That golden harvests may be born. 
 
 [From Persephone.] 
 LATE SUMMER. 
 
 The summer-tide swells high and 
 full; 
 
 I sit within the waving grass; 
 
 The scented breezes o'er me pass, 
 The thistles shed their silky wool. 
 
 The ox-eyed daisies hail the sun, 
 And sprinkle all the acres bright 
 With golden stars of radiant light 
 
 Amid the feathery grasses dun. 
 
 The plaintive brook reflects the glow 
 Of rows of bleeding cardinal; 
 The whippoorwill's sweet madrigal 
 
 Breathes through the sunset soft and 
 low. 
 
 I see the dear Persephone 
 
 Trailing her piu-ple robes more 
 slow, 
 
 Her lovely eyelids drooping low, 
 And gazing pensive o'er the sea. 
 
 The fringed gentians kiss her hand, 
 The milkweed waves its soft adieus ; 
 Theirtender words she must refuse, 
 
 For dark steeds wait upon the strand. 
 
 [From Persephone.'] 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Ereavhile the sap has had its will, 
 The bud has opened into leaf 
 The grain is ripening for the sheaf, 
 
 Demeter's arms have had their fill. 
 
 The seed has dropped into the mould, 
 The flower all its petals shed. 
 The rattling stalksaredry and dead, 
 
 Persephone is still and cold. 
 
 For Nature's dream is all fulfilled. 
 Her clinging robes she folds once 
 
 more. 
 And glides within her close-locked 
 door, 
 For all the wine of life is spilled. 
 
 HYMN FROM ''MOTHERHOOD." 
 
 BEAUTIFUL new life within my 
 
 bosom, 
 New life, love-born, more beautiful 
 than day. 
 
 1 tremble in thy sacred presence, 
 
 knowing 
 What holy miracle attends my 
 
 way! 
 My heart is hushed, I hear between 
 
 its beating 
 The angel of annunciation say, 
 "Hail, blessed among women!" 
 
 while I pray. 
 
 O all-creative Love ! thy finger 
 touches 
 My leaping pulses to diviner heat. 
 What am I. that thy thought of life 
 should blossom 
 In me, in me thy tide of life should 
 beat ? 
 Beat strong within me, God-tide, in 
 high passion. 
 With quickening spirit earth-born 
 
 essence greet! 
 Fountain of life! flow through me 
 pure and sweet. 
 
 O all-sustaining Love! come close 
 beside me, — 
 Me, so unworthy of this wondrous 
 gift. 
 Purge me, refine me, try me as by 
 fire, 
 Whiten me white as snow in gla- 
 cier-rift, 
 That neither spot, nor stain nor 
 
 blemish darken 
 These elements that now to being 
 drift: 
 Inspire, sustain me, all my soul 
 uplift! 
 
830 
 
 HUTCHINSON —JACKSON. 
 
 O all-sufficient Love ! I am as 
 nothing; 
 Take me, thy way, most facile to 
 thy need; 
 Enraptured, let me feel thy spirit 
 
 moulding 
 The gei-m that thou hast made a 
 
 living seed. 
 And while the currents of my life are 
 speeding 
 This life immortal in its growth to 
 
 feed. 
 To one dear purpose, all my forces 
 lead! 
 
 Ellen Mackay Hutchinson. 
 
 SEA-WAY. 
 
 The tide slips up the silver sand, 
 
 Dark night and rosy day ; 
 It brings sea-treasures to the land. 
 
 Then bears them all away. 
 On mighty shores from east to west 
 It wails, and gropes, and cannot 
 rest. 
 
 O tide, that still doth ebb and 
 flow 
 Through niglit to golden day: — 
 Wit, learning, beauty, come and go. 
 
 Thou giv'st — thou tak'st away. 
 But sometime, on some gracious 
 
 shore, 
 Thou shalt lie still and ebb no more. 
 
 ON THE nOAD. 
 
 UosT know the way to Paradise ? 
 Pray, tell me by thy grace. 
 
 '• Any way thou canst devise 
 That leads to my love's face — 
 For that's his dwelling-place." 
 
 How far is it to Paradise ? 
 "Ah, that I cannot say; 
 
 Time loiters and my heart it flies - 
 A minute seems a day 
 Whene'er I go that way." 
 
 THE PRINCE. 
 
 Septembek waves his golden-rod 
 Along the lanes and hollows, 
 
 And saunters round the sunny fields 
 A-playing with the swallows. 
 
 The corn has listened for his stei), 
 The maples blush to greet him. 
 
 And gay coquetting Sumach dons 
 Her velvet cloak to meet him. 
 
 Come to the hearth, O merry prince, 
 With flaming knot and ember ; 
 
 For all your ti'icks of frosty eves, 
 We love your ways, September! 
 
 AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 Red leaf, gold leaf, 
 Flutter down the wind: 
 Life is brief, oh! life is Ijrief, 
 But Mother Earth is kind; 
 From her dear bosom ye shall spring 
 To new blossoming. 
 
 The red leaf, the gold leaf. 
 They have had their way; 
 Love is long if life be brief, — 
 
 Life is but a day; 
 And love from grief and death shall 
 spring 
 To new blossoming. 
 
 Helen Jackson 
 (II. II.). 
 
 THE LAST WORDS. 
 
 [The last words written by Dr. Holland, 
 Oct. lull, 18S1, — referring to President 
 Garfield: " By sympathy he drew all hearts 
 to him."] I. 
 
 We may not choose! Ah, if we 
 
 might, how we 
 Shotdd linger here, not ready to be 
 
 dead, 
 Till one more loving thing were 
 
 looked, or said, — 
 Till some dear child's estate of joy 
 
 should be 
 Complete, — or we triumphant, late, 
 
 should see 
 
JACKSON. 
 
 831 
 
 Some great cause win for which our 
 hearts had bled. — 
 
 Some hope come true which all our 
 lives had fed, — 
 
 Some bitter soi-row fade away and flee, 
 
 Which we, rebellious, had too bitter 
 thought ; 
 
 Or even, — so our human hearts 
 would cling, 
 
 If but they might, to this fair world 
 inwrought 
 
 With heavenly beauty in each small- 
 est thing, 
 
 We would refuse to die till we had 
 sought 
 
 One violet more, heard one more 
 robin sing! 
 
 We may not choose : but if we did 
 
 foreknow 
 The hour when we should pass from 
 
 human sight, 
 What words were tast that w^e should 
 
 say, or write. 
 Could we pray fate a sweeter boon 
 
 to show 
 Than bid our last words burn with 
 
 loving glow 
 Of heartfelt praise, to lift, and make 
 
 more bright 
 A great man's memory, set in clearer 
 
 light ? 
 Ah yes! Fate could one boon more 
 
 sweet bestow : 
 So frame those words that every 
 
 heart which knew, 
 Should sudden, awe-struck, weeping 
 
 turn away. 
 And cry: "His own hand his best 
 
 wreath must lay ! 
 Of his own life his own last words 
 
 are true. 
 So true, love's truth no truer thing 
 
 can say, — 
 " By sympathy, all hearts to him he 
 
 drew. " 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 Month which the warring ancients 
 
 strangely styled 
 The month of war, — as if in their 
 
 fierce ways 
 
 AVere any month of j^eace! — in thy 
 
 rough days, 
 I find no war in nature, though the 
 
 wild 
 Winds clash and clang, and broken 
 
 boughs are piled 
 At feet of writhing trees. The violets 
 
 raise 
 Their heads without affright, or look 
 
 of maze, 
 And sleep through all the din, as 
 
 sleeps a child. 
 And he who watches well, will well 
 
 discern 
 Sweet expectation in each living 
 
 thing. 
 Like pregnant mother, the sweet 
 
 earth doth yearn ; 
 In secret joy makes ready for the 
 
 spring; 
 And hidden, sacred, in her breast 
 
 doth bear 
 Annunciation lilies for the year. 
 
 JUL Y. 
 
 Some flowers are withered and some 
 
 joys have died; 
 The garden reeks with an East Indian 
 
 scent 
 From beds where gillyflowers stand 
 
 weak and spent; 
 The white heat pales the skies from 
 
 side to side ; 
 At noonday all the living creatures 
 
 hide; 
 But in still lakes and rivers, cool, 
 
 content. 
 Like starry blooms on a new firma- 
 ment. 
 White lilies float and regally abide. 
 In vain the cruel skies their hot rays 
 
 shed; 
 The lily does not feel their brazen 
 
 glare; 
 In vain the pallid clouds refuse to 
 
 share 
 Their dews; the lily feels no thirst, 
 
 no dread; 
 Unharmed she lifts her queenly face 
 
 and head ; 
 She drinks of living waters and keeps 
 
 fair. 
 
832 
 
 JENNISON. 
 
 MY NASTUliTIUMS. 
 
 Quaint blossom with the old fantas- 
 tic name, 
 By jester christened at some an- 
 cient feast! 
 How royally to-day among tlie least 
 Considered herbs, it flings its spice 
 
 and flame. 
 How careless wears a velvet of the 
 
 same 
 Unfathomed red, which ceased 
 
 when Titian ceased 
 To paint it in the robes of doge and 
 
 priest. 
 Oh, long lost loyal red which never 
 
 came 
 Again to painter's palette — on my 
 
 sight 
 It flashes at this moment, trained 
 
 and poured 
 Thi'ough my nasturtiums in the 
 
 morning light. 
 Like great-souled kings to kingdoms 
 
 full restored. 
 They stand alone and draw them to 
 
 their height, 
 And shower me from their stintless 
 
 golden hoard. 
 
 Lucia W. Jennison 
 
 (OWEN INNSLY). 
 
 IN A LETTER. 
 
 Titp:ue came a breath, out of a dis- 
 tant time. 
 An odor from neglected gardens 
 
 where 
 Unnumbered roses once perfumed 
 
 the air 
 Through summer days, in cliild- 
 
 hood's bappy clime. 
 There came the salt scent of the sea, 
 
 the chime 
 Of waves against the beaclies or the 
 
 bare, 
 ftaunt rocks; as to the mind, half 
 
 unaware. 
 Recur the words of some familiar 
 
 rhyme. 
 
 And as above the gardens and the 
 
 sea 
 The moon arises, and her silver light 
 Touches the landscape with a deeper 
 
 grace. 
 So o'er the misty wraitlis of memory, 
 Turning them into pictures clear 
 
 and bright, 
 Eose in a halo tlie beloved face. 
 
 HEIt ROSES. 
 
 Against her mouth she pressed the 
 
 rose, and there, 
 'Neath the caress of lips as soft and 
 
 red 
 As its own i)etals, quick the bright 
 
 bud spread 
 And oped, and flung its fragrance on 
 
 the air. 
 It ne'er again a bud's young grace 
 
 can wear ? 
 O love, regret it not! It gladly 
 
 shed 
 Its soul for thee, and though thou 
 
 kiss it dead 
 It does not murnuu' at a fate so 
 
 fair. 
 Thus, once, thou breath' dst on me, 
 
 till every germ 
 Of love and song "broke into raptu- 
 rous flower, 
 And sent a challenge upwards to the 
 
 sky. 
 What if too swift fruition set a 
 
 term 
 Too brief to all things ? I have lived 
 
 my hour. 
 And die contented since for thee I 
 
 die. 
 
 OUTllE-AfOnT. 
 
 Suppose the dreaded messenger of 
 
 death 
 Should hasten steps that seem, 
 
 thongh sure, so slow. 
 And soon should whisper with his 
 
 chilly breath: 
 "Arise! thine hour has sounded, 
 
 thou must go; 
 
JENNISON. 
 
 833 
 
 For they that earliest taste life's holi- 
 est feast 
 
 Must early fast, lest, grown too bold, 
 they d are ■ 
 
 Of tlieiu that follow after seize the 
 share." 
 
 Then, though my pulse's beat forever 
 
 ceased, 
 If where I slumbered thou shouldst 
 
 chance to pass 
 Thovigh grave-bound, I thy presence 
 
 should discern. 
 Heedless of coffin-lid and tangled 
 
 grass. 
 Upward to kiss thy feet my lips 
 
 would yearn; 
 And did one spark of love thy heart 
 
 inflame. 
 With the old rapture I should call 
 
 tliv name. 
 
 DEPENDENCE. 
 
 What would life keep for me if 
 
 thou shouldst go ? 
 Beloved, give me answer; for my 
 
 art 
 Is pledged unto thy service, and my 
 
 heart 
 Apart from thee nor joy nor grace 
 
 doth know. 
 No arid desert, no wide waste of 
 
 snow. 
 Looks drearier to exiled ones who 
 
 start 
 On their forced journey than, 
 
 shouldst thou depart, 
 This fair green earth to my dead 
 
 hope would show. 
 And like a drowning man who strug- 
 gling clings 
 With stiffened fingers to the rope 
 
 that saves. 
 Thrown out to meet his deep need 
 
 from the land. 
 So to thy thought I hold when 
 
 sorrow's wings 
 Darken the sky, and 'mid the bitter- 
 est waves 
 Of fate am succored by thy friendly 
 
 hand. 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 What lies beyond the far horizon's 
 
 rim ? 
 Ah! could our ship but reach and 
 
 anchor there. 
 What wondrous scenes, what visions 
 
 bright and fair 
 Would meet the eyes that gazed 
 
 across the brim! 
 ijut though we crowd the canvass 
 
 on and trim 
 Our barque with skill, the proud 
 
 waves seem to bear 
 No nearer to that goal, and every- 
 where 
 Stretches an endless circle wide and 
 
 dim, 
 >So we do dream, treading the narrow 
 
 path 
 Of life, between the bounds of day 
 
 and night. 
 To-morrow turns this page so often 
 
 conned. 
 But when to-morrow cometh, lo! it 
 
 hath 
 The limits of to-day, and in its 
 
 light 
 Still lies far off the unknown heaven 
 
 beyond. 
 
 We sail the centre of a ceaseless 
 round. 
 
 Forever circled by the horizon's rim; 
 
 And fondly deem that from that far- 
 off brim 
 
 Some sign will rise or some glad ti- 
 dings sound. 
 
 But no word comes, nor aught to 
 break the bound 
 
 Of sea and sky all day with distance 
 dim. 
 
 And vanished quite when darkness, 
 chill and grim. 
 
 About the deep her sable shroud has 
 wound. 
 
 So on the seas of life and time we 
 drift. 
 
 Within the circling limits of om- 
 fate, 
 
 Expectant ever of some solving 
 breath. 
 
 But no sound comes, no pitying hand 
 doth lift 
 
834 
 
 JOHNSON— JOYCE. 
 
 The veil nor faith nor love can i^en- 
 
 etrate. 
 And to our dusk succeeds the dark 
 
 of death. 
 
 Robert U. Johnson. 
 
 AY SOVEMnEU. 
 
 Heke is the water-shed of all the 
 
 year, 
 Where by a thought's space, 
 
 thoughts do start anear 
 That fare most widely forth: some 
 
 to the mouth 
 Of Arctic rivers, some to the mellow 
 
 South. 
 
 The gaunt and wrinkled orchard 
 shivers 'neath 
 
 The blast, like Lear upon the English 
 heath, 
 
 And mossy boughs blow wild that, 
 imdistressed. 
 
 Another spring shall hide the cheer- 
 ful nest. 
 
 All things are nearer from this chilly 
 
 crown, — 
 The solitude, the white and huddliug 
 
 town ; 
 And next the russet fields, of harvest 
 
 shorn. 
 Shines the new wheat that freshens 
 
 all the morn. 
 
 From out the bursting milkweed, 
 
 dry and gray, 
 The silken argosies are launched 
 
 away. 
 To mount the gust, or drift from hill 
 
 to hill 
 And plant new colonies by road and 
 
 rill. 
 
 Ah, wife of mine, whose clinging 
 hand I liold, 
 
 Shrink you before the new, or at 
 the old •? 
 
 And those far eyes that hold the si- 
 lence fast — 
 
 Look they upon the Future, or the 
 Past '' 
 
 Robert Dwyer Joyce. 
 
 KlLiOLEMAN CASTLE. 
 
 KiLfOLEMAX Castle, an ancient and 
 very picturesque ruin, once the residence 
 of Spenser, lies on the shore of a small 
 lake, about two miles to the west of iJone- 
 raile, in the county of Cork. Jt belonged 
 ouce to the Karls of Desmond, and was 
 burned by their followers in 1.598. Spenser, 
 who was hated by the Irish inconsequence 
 of his stringent advices to the English 
 about the management of the refractory 
 chiefs and nunstrels, narrowly escaped 
 with his life, and an infant child of his, 
 unfortunately left behind, w'as burnt to 
 death in the flames. 
 
 No sound of life was coming 
 
 From glen or tree or brake. 
 Save the bittern's hollow booming 
 
 Up from tlie reedy lake; 
 The golden light of sunset 
 
 Was swallowed in the deep, 
 And the night came down with a 
 sullen frown, 
 
 On Houra's craggy steep. 
 
 And Houra's hills are soundless: 
 
 But hark, that trumpet blast! 
 It tills the forest boimdless. 
 
 Rings roimd the summits vast; 
 'Tis answered by another 
 
 From the crest of Corrin Mor, 
 And hark again the pipe's wild strain 
 
 By Bregoge's caverned shore! 
 
 Oh. sweet at hush of even 
 
 The trumpet's golden thrill; 
 Grand 'neath the starry heaven 
 
 The pibroch wild and shrill ; 
 Yet all were pale with terror. 
 
 The fearfid and the bold, 
 Who heard its tone that twilight lone 
 
 In the poet's frowning hold ! 
 
 Well might their hearts be beating; 
 
 For up the mountain pass, 
 By lake and river meeting 
 
 Came kern and galloglass. 
 Breathing of vengeance deadly, 
 
 Under the forest tree. 
 To the wizard man who had cast the 
 ban 
 
 On the minstrels bold and free! 
 
They gave no word of warning, 
 
 Kound still tliey came, and on. 
 Door, wall, and ramparts scorning, 
 
 They knew not he was gone! 
 Gone fast and far that even, 
 
 All seci'ctas the wind. 
 His treasures all in that castle tall, 
 
 And his infant son behind! 
 
 All still that castle hoarest; 
 
 Their pipes and horns were still, 
 While gazed they through the forest, 
 
 Up glen and northern hill; 
 Till from the Brehou circle, 
 
 On Corrin's crest of stone, 
 A sheet of fire like an Indian pyre 
 
 Up to the clouds was thrown. 
 
 Then, with a mighty blazing, 
 
 They answered — to the sky; 
 It dazzled their own gazing, 
 
 So bright it rolle 
 
 nie! 
 
 Tak tent the lesson be wisely sped ; 
 
 For gold or gear waste not life's 
 
 sweetness. 
 
 Better love's roses white and red." 
 
PALFREY— PRENTICE. 
 
 847 
 
 Sarah Hammond Palfrey 
 
 (e. foxtox). 
 
 THE CHILD'S PLEA. 
 
 Because I wear the swaddling-bands 
 of time, 
 Still mark and watch me, 
 Eternal Father, on Thy throne sub- 
 lime, 
 Lest Satan snatch me. 
 
 Because to seek Thee I have yet to 
 learn, 
 Come down and lead me ; 
 Because I am too weak my bread to 
 earn, 
 My Father, feed me. 
 
 Because I grasp at things that are 
 not mine, 
 And might undo me, 
 Give, from thy treasure-house of 
 goods divine. 
 Good gifts imto me. 
 
 Because too near the pit I creeping 
 go, 
 Do not forsake me. 
 To climb into Thine arms I am too 
 low ; 
 O Father, take me ! 
 
 THE LI GUT-HOUSE. 
 
 O'er waves that murmur ever nigh 
 I\Iy window opening toAvard the 
 deep, 
 T!ie hght-liouse, Avith its wakeful eye 
 Looks into mine, that shuts to 
 sleep. 
 
 I lose myself in idle dreams. 
 And wake in smiles or sighs or 
 fright 
 
 According to my vision's themes, 
 And see it shining in the night. 
 
 Forever there and still the same; 
 "While many more, besides me, 
 mark, — 
 On various course, with various 
 aim, — 
 That light that shineth in the dark. 
 
 It draws my heart towards those 
 who roam 
 
 Unknown, nor to be known by me; 
 I see it and am glad, at home. 
 
 They see it, and are safe at sea. 
 
 On slumbrous, thus, or watching 
 eyes. 
 It shines through all the dangerous 
 night ; 
 Until at length the day doth rise. 
 And light is swallowed up of light. 
 
 Light of the world, incarnate Word, 
 So shin'st thou through our night 
 of time, 
 
 Whom freemen love to call their Lord, 
 O Beacon, steadfast and sublime ! 
 
 And men of every land and speech. 
 If but they have Thee in their 
 sight. 
 Are bound to Thee, and each to each. 
 Through thee, by countless threads 
 of light. 
 
 George Dennison Prentice. 
 
 THE RIVER IS THE MAMMOTH 
 CA VE. 
 
 O DAr.K, mysterious stream, I sit 1)y 
 
 thee 
 In awe profound, as myriad wander- 
 ers 
 Have sat before. I see thy waters 
 
 move 
 From out the ghostly glimmerings of 
 
 ray lamp 
 Into the dark beyond, as noiselessly 
 As if thou wert a sombre river drawn 
 Upon a spectral canvas, or tli(> stream 
 Of dim Oblivion flowing through the 
 
 lone 
 And shadowy vale of death. There 
 
 is no wave 
 To whisper on thy shoie, or breathe 
 
 a wail, 
 Wounding its tender bosom on thy 
 
 sharp 
 
848 
 
 REDDEN. 
 
 And jagged rocks. Iniuinierons min- 
 gled tones. 
 
 The voices of the day and of the 
 night, 
 
 Are ever heard tlirough all our outer 
 world, 
 
 For Nature there is never dumb ; but 
 here 
 
 I turn and turn my listening ear, and 
 catch 
 
 No mortal sound, save that of my 
 own heart, 
 
 That 'mid the awful stillness throbs 
 aloud. 
 
 Like the far sea-surf's low and meas- 
 ured beat 
 
 Upon its rocky shore. But when a 
 cry. 
 
 Or shout, or song is raised, how 
 wildly back 
 
 Come the weird echoes from a thou- 
 sand rocks. 
 
 As if unnumbered airy sentinels. 
 
 The genii of the spot, caught up the 
 voice. 
 
 Repeating it in wonder — a wild maze 
 
 Of spirit-tones, a wilderness of 
 sounds, 
 
 Earth-born but all unearthly. 
 
 Thou dost seem, 
 
 O wizard stream, a river of the dead — 
 
 A river .of some blasted, perished 
 world. 
 
 Wandering forever in the mystic 
 void. 
 
 No breeze e'er strays across thy 
 solemn tide; 
 
 No bird e'er breaks thy surface with 
 his wing ; 
 
 No star, or sky, or bow, is ever 
 glassed 
 
 Within tliy depths ; no flower or blade 
 e'er breathes 
 
 Its fragrance from thy bleak banks 
 on the air. 
 
 True, here are flowers, or semblances 
 of flowers, 
 
 Carved by the magic fingers of the 
 drops 
 
 Tlaat fall upon thy rocky battle- 
 ments — 
 
 Fair roses, tulips, pinks, and violets — 
 
 All white as cerements of the coflined 
 dead ; 
 
 But they are flowers of stone, and 
 
 never drank 
 The sunshine or the dew. O sombre 
 
 stream, 
 Whence comest thou, and whither 
 
 goest? Far 
 Above, upon the surface of old Earth, 
 A hundred rivers o'er thee pass and 
 
 sweep. 
 In music, and in sunshine, to the 
 
 sea; — 
 Thou art not born of them. Whence 
 
 comest thou, 
 And whither goest '? None of earth 
 
 can know. 
 No mortal e'er has gazed upon thy 
 
 source — 
 No mortal seen where thy dark 
 
 waters blend 
 With tlie abyss of Ocean. None may 
 
 guess 
 The mysteries of thy course. Per- 
 chance thou hast 
 A hundred mighty cataracts, thun- 
 dering down 
 Toward Earth's eternal centre; but 
 
 their sound 
 Is not for ear of man. All we can 
 
 know 
 Is that thy tide rolls out, a spectre 
 
 stream. 
 From yon stupendous, frowning wall 
 
 of rock, 
 And, moving on a little way, sinks 
 
 down 
 Beneath another mass of rock as 
 
 dark 
 And frowning, even as life — our 
 
 little life — 
 Born of one fathomless eternity, 
 Steals on a moment and then disap- 
 pears 
 In an eternity as fathomless. 
 
 Laura C. Redden 
 
 (lIOWAKI) GLYNDON). 
 
 FAIR AND FIFTEEX. 
 
 She is tlie east just ready for the sun 
 Upon a cloudless morning. Oh, 
 her cheek 
 
Hath caught the trick of that first, 
 deUcate straak 
 Which says earth's light-ward foot- 
 steps have begun ! 
 
 And still her brow is like some Arctic 
 height 
 Which never knows the full, hot 
 
 flush of noon ; 
 She wears the seal of May and not 
 of June ; 
 She is tlie new day, furthest off from 
 night! 
 
 Luring in promise of all daintiest 
 sweetness : 
 A bud with crimson rifting througli 
 
 its green ; 
 The large, clear eyes, so shy their 
 lids between 
 Give hints of tliis dear wonder's near 
 completeness. 
 
 For, when the bud is fair and full, 
 like this, 
 We know that there will be a queen 
 
 of roses, 
 Before her cloister's emerald gate 
 uncloses. 
 And her true knight unlocks her with 
 a kiss I 
 
 And gazing on the young moon, 
 fashioned sliglitly, 
 A silver cipher inlaid on the blue. 
 For all that she is strange and slim 
 and new, 
 We know that she will grow in glory 
 nightly. 
 
 And dear to loving eyes as that first 
 look 
 The watcher getteth of the far 
 
 white sail. 
 This new light on her face; she 
 doth prevail 
 Upon us like a rare, unopened book ! 
 
 Helen Rich, 
 
 FilLENT MOTIIEnS. 
 
 I woxDER. cliild, if, when you cry 
 To me, in such sore agony 
 
 As I moaned "Mother!" yesterday, 
 I shall not find some gracious way. 
 Of comforting my little May ! 
 
 If, Avlien you kiss my silent lips, 
 They will not pass from death's 
 
 eclipse 
 To smile in peace I then shall know, 
 That waits where tired mothers go — 
 Ay, kiss and bless you soft and low ? 
 
 If my poor children's grief will fail 
 To stir the white and frosty veil 
 That hides my secret from their eyes. 
 Shall I not turn from Paradise 
 To still the tempest of their sighs ? 
 
 Oh ! patient hands, that toil to keep 
 The wolf at bay while children sleep, 
 That smooth each flossy tangled 
 
 tress. 
 And thrill witli mother happiness ; 
 Have they not soon the power to 
 bless ? 
 
 I think the sting of death must be 
 Resigning Love's sweet mastery; 
 To bid our little ones '' Good night," 
 And even with all Heaven in sight. 
 To turn from home and its delight. 
 
 Hiram Rich. 
 
 STILL TEXANTED. 
 
 Old house, how desolate thy life! 
 
 Xay, life and death alike have fled; 
 Nor thrift, nor any song within, 
 
 Xor daily thought for daily bread. 
 
 The dew is nightly on thy hearth. 
 
 Yet something sweeter to thee 
 clings. 
 And some who enter think they hear 
 
 The murmur of departing wings. 
 
 No doubt within the chambers 
 thei'e, 
 Not by the wall nor through the 
 gate. 
 Uncounted tenants come, to Mliom 
 The house is not so desolate. 
 
850 
 
 BIORDAN. 
 
 To them the walls are white and 
 warm, 
 The chimneys lure the laughing 
 flame, 
 The bride and groom take happy 
 hands, 
 The new-born babe awaits a name. 
 
 Who knows what far-off journeyers 
 At night return with winged 
 feet. 
 To cool their fever in the brook. 
 Or haunt the meadow, clover- 
 sweet ? 
 
 And yet the morning mowers find 
 Xo footprint in the grass they mow, 
 
 The water's clear, unwritten song 
 Is not of things that come or go. 
 
 " Tis not forsaken rooms alone 
 Tliat unseen people love to tread, 
 
 Nor in the moments only when 
 The day's eluded cares are dead. 
 
 To every home, or high or low. 
 Some unimagined guests repair, 
 
 Who come unseen to break and bless 
 The bread and oil they never share. 
 
 Roger Kiordan. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 Come, come, come, my love, come and hurry, and come, my dear; 
 
 You'll find me ever loving true, or lying on my bier: 
 For love of you has buriiedine through — has oped a gap for Death, I fear ; 
 
 O come, come, come, my love, before his hand is here. 
 
 Though angels' swords should bar your way, turn you not back, but 
 persevere ; 
 
 Though heaven should send down fiery hail, rain lightnings, do not fear; 
 Let your small, exquisite, white feet fly over cliffs and mountains sheer, 
 
 Bridge rivers, scatter armed foes, shine on the hill-tops near. 
 
 Like citizens to greet their queen, then shall my hopes, desires, troop out, 
 Eager to meet you on your way and compass vou about — 
 
 To speed, to urge, to lift you on, 'mid storms of joy and floods of tears. 
 To the poor town, the battered wall, delivered by your spears. 
 
 The -javelin-scourges of your eye, the lightnings from your glorious face, 
 Shall drive away Death's armies gray in ruin and disgrace. 
 
 Lift me you shall, and succor me; iny ancient courage you shall rouse. 
 Till like a giant I shall stand, with thunder on my brows. 
 
 Then, hand in hand, we'll laugh at Death, his brainless skull, his nerveless 
 arm; 
 
 How can he wreak our overthrow, or plot, to do us harm ? 
 For what so Meak a thing as Death when you are near, when you are near ? 
 
 Oh, come, come, come, my love, before his hand is here ! 
 
lilTTEB — RUSSELL. 
 
 851 
 
 Mary L Ritter. 
 
 RECOMPENSE. 
 
 Heart of my heart! when that ijreat 
 
 light shall fall, 
 Burning away this veil of earthly 
 
 dust, 
 And I behold thee beautiful and 
 
 strong. 
 My grand, pure, perfect angel, wise 
 
 and just; 
 If the strong passions of my mortal 
 
 life 
 Should, in the vital essence, still re- 
 main, 
 Would there be then — as now — 
 
 some cruel bar 
 Whereon my tired hands should beat 
 
 in vain ? 
 Or should I, drawn and lifted, folded 
 
 close 
 In eager-asking arms, unlearn my 
 
 fears 
 And in one transport, ardent, wild 
 
 and sweet, 
 Keceive the promise of the endless 
 
 years ? 
 
 T. H. Robertson. 
 
 COQUETTE. 
 
 " Coquette," my love they some- 
 times call. 
 
 For she is light of lips and heart; 
 What though she smile alike on all, 
 
 If in her smiles she knows no art ? 
 
 Like some glad brook she seems to 
 be. 
 
 That ripples o'er its pebbly bed. 
 And prattles to each flower or tree. 
 
 Which stoops to kiss it, overhead. 
 
 Beneath the heavens' white and blue 
 It purls and sings and laughs and 
 leaps. 
 
 The sxinny meadows dancing through 
 O'er noisy shoals and frothy steeps. 
 
 'Tis thus the world doth see the 
 brook ; 
 But I have seen it otherwise. 
 When following it to some far nook 
 Where leafy shields shut out the 
 skies. 
 
 And there its waters rest, subdued. 
 
 In shadowy pools, serene and shy, 
 Wherein grave thoughts and fancies 
 brood 
 And tender dreams and longings 
 lie. " ^ 
 
 I love it when it laughs and leaps, 
 But love it better when at rest — 
 
 'Tis only in its tranquil deeps 
 I see my image in its breast ! 
 
 AN IDLE POET. 
 
 'Tis said that when the nightingale 
 
 His mate has found. 
 He fills no more the woodland deeps 
 
 With songful sound. 
 
 I sing not since I found my love. 
 
 For, like tlie bird's 
 My heart is full of song too sweet, 
 
 Too deep, for words. 
 
 Irwin Russell. 
 
 HER CONQUEST. 
 
 Muster thy wit, and talk of Avhatso- 
 ever 
 Light, mirth-provoking matter 
 thou canst find : 
 I laugh, and own that thou, with 
 small endeavor. 
 Hast won my miud. 
 
 Be silent if thou wilt — thine eyes ex- 
 pressing 
 Thy thoughts and feelings, lift 
 tliem up to mine: 
 Then quickly thou shalt hear me, 
 love, confessing 
 My heart is thine. 
 
852 
 
 SAXTON— 8 HURTLE FF. 
 
 And let that brilliant glance become 
 but tender — 
 Return me heart for heart — then 
 take the whole 
 < )f all that yet is left me to surrender: 
 Thou hast my soul. 
 
 Now, when the three are fast in thy 
 possession, 
 And thou hast paid me back their 
 worth, and more, 
 I'll tell thee — all whereof I've made 
 thee cession 
 Was thine before. 
 
 Andrew B. Saxton, 
 
 MIDSUMMER. 
 
 MiDAVAY about the circle of the year 
 There is a single perfect day that lies 
 Supremely fair before our careless 
 eyes; 
 After the spathes of floral bloom ap- 
 pear, 
 Before is found the first dead leaf and 
 sere. 
 It comes precursor of the autumn 
 
 skies. 
 And crown of spring's endeavor. 
 Till it dies 
 We do not dream the flawless day is 
 
 here. 
 And thus, as on the way of life Ave 
 speed, 
 Mindful but of the joys we hope to 
 see. 
 We never think. "These present 
 hours exceed 
 All that has been or that shall ever 
 be;" 
 Yet somewhere on our journey we 
 
 shall stay 
 Backward to gaze on our midsummer 
 day. 
 
 DELA r. 
 
 Thou dear, misunderstood, maligned 
 Delay, 
 What gentler hand than thine can 
 any know ! 
 
 How dost thou soften Death's un- 
 kindly blow. 
 And halt his messenger upon the way ! 
 How dost thou unto Shame's swift 
 herald say, 
 " Linger a little with thy weight of 
 
 woe! " 
 How art thou, imto those whose 
 joys o'erflow, 
 A stern highwayman, bidding passion 
 
 stay, 
 Robbing the lover's imlses of their 
 heat 
 Within the lonesome shelter of thy 
 wood ! 
 Of all Life's varied accidents we meet 
 Where can we find so great an- of- 
 fered good ? 
 Even the longed-for heaven might 
 seem less sweet 
 Could we but hurry to it when we 
 would. 
 
 Ernest W. Shurtleff. 
 
 OUT OF THE DARK. 
 
 Day like a flower blossoms from the 
 
 night. 
 And all things beautiful arise from 
 
 things 
 That bear a lesser grace. The lily 
 
 springs 
 Pure as an angel's soul, and just as 
 
 white. 
 From out the dark clod where no ray 
 
 of light 
 E'er creeps. The butterfly, on airy 
 
 wings, 
 Rises from the cold chrysalis that 
 
 clings 
 To some dead, mouldering leaflet, hid 
 
 from sight. 
 If thus in nature all things good and 
 
 fair. 
 And all things that the grace of beauty 
 
 wear, 
 Begotten are of things that hold no 
 
 charm, 
 Then will I seek to find in eveiy care, 
 And every sorrow, and in all the harm 
 That comes to me, a pleasure swee' 
 
 and rare. 
 
SPALDING — THOMPSON. 
 
 853 
 
 Susan Mark Spalding. 
 
 A DESIRE. 
 
 Let me not lay the lightest feather's 
 
 weight 
 Of duty upon love. Let not, my 
 
 own, 
 The breath of one reluctant kiss be 
 
 blown 
 Between our hearts. I would not be 
 
 the gate 
 That bars, like some inexorable 
 
 fate. 
 The portals of thy life; that says, 
 
 " Alone 
 Through me shall any joy to thee be 
 
 known!" 
 Eather the window, fragrant early 
 
 and late 
 With thy sweet, clinging thoughts, 
 
 that grow and twine 
 Around me like some bright and 
 
 blooming vine. 
 Through which the sun shall shed his 
 
 wealth on thee 
 In golden showers ; through which 
 
 thou mayest look out 
 Exulting in all beauty, without 
 
 doubt. 
 Or fear, or shadow of regret from me. 
 
 Edith M, Thomas. 
 
 FLOWER AND FRUIT. 
 
 In the spring, perverse and sour, 
 He cared not for bud or flower, 
 Garden row or blossomed tree: 
 Rounded fruit he fain would see; 
 Vintage glow on sunburnt hills, 
 Bursting garners, toiling mills. 
 Sheer unreason! 
 Pity 'twere to waste the blooming 
 season ! 
 
 AVhat's the matter ? Xow he sits 
 Deep in thought; his brow he knits 
 Here is fruit on vine and bough, — 
 Malcontent ! what seeks he now ? 
 Would have flowers when flowers 
 are none, 
 
 So in love with springtime grown! 
 
 Sheer unreason ! 
 Pity 'twere to waste the rii>ened sea- 
 son! 
 
 Maurice Thompson. 
 
 THE MORNING HILLS. 
 
 He sits among the morning hills, 
 His face is bright and strong; 
 
 He scans far heights, but scarcely 
 notes 
 The herdsman's idle song. 
 
 He cannot brook this peaceful life. 
 While battle's trumpet calls; 
 
 He sees a crown for him who wins, 
 A tear for him who falls. 
 
 The flowery glens and shady slopes 
 
 Are hateful to his eyes; 
 Beyond the heights, beyond the 
 storms. 
 
 The land of promise lies. 
 
 He is so old and sits so still. 
 With face so weak and mild. 
 
 We know that he remembers naught, 
 Save when he was a child. 
 
 His fight is fought, his fame is won, 
 liife's highest peak is past. 
 
 The laurel crown, the triumph's arch 
 Are worthless at the last. 
 
 The frosts of age destroy the bay, — 
 The loud applause of men 
 
 Falls feebly on the palsied ears 
 Of fourscore years and ten. 
 
 He does not hear the voice that bears 
 His name around the world ; 
 
 He has no thought of great deeds done 
 Where battle-tempests whirled. 
 
 But evermore he's looking back, 
 Whilst memory fills and thrills 
 
 With echoes of the herdsman's song 
 Among the morning hills. 
 
854 
 
 TICKNOR. 
 
 BEFORE DAWN. 
 
 A KEEN, insistent hint of dawn 
 ('anie from the mountain height; 
 
 A wan, uncertain gleam betrayed 
 The faltering of the night. 
 
 The emphasis of silence made 
 
 The fog above the brook 
 Intensely pale ; the trees took on 
 
 A haunted, haggard look. 
 
 Such quiet came, expectancy 
 Filled all the earth and sky ; 
 
 Time seemed to pause a little space; 
 I heard a dream go by ! 
 
 Frank 0, Ticknor. 
 
 LITTLE GIFFEX. 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire. 
 Out of the hospital walls as dire ; 
 Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 
 (Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen!) 
 Spectre! sucli as you seldom see. 
 Little Giffen, of Tennessee ! 
 
 " Take him and welcome!" the sui-- 
 geons said ; 
 
 Little the doctor can help the dead ! 
 
 So we took him; and brought him 
 where 
 
 The balm was sweet in the summer 
 air; 
 
 And we laid him down on a whole- 
 some bed — 
 
 Utter Lazarus, heel to head! 
 
 And we watclied the war with abated 
 
 breath, — 
 Skeleton boy against skeleton death. 
 Months of torture, how many such ? 
 Weary weeks of the stick and crutch; 
 And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
 Told of a spirit tliat wouldn't die, 
 
 And didn't. Nay, more! in death's 
 
 despite 
 The crippled skeleton " learned to 
 
 write." 
 Dear mot her, at first, of course; and 
 
 then 
 
 Dear captain, intjuiring about, the 
 
 men. 
 Captain's answer: of eighty-and-five, 
 Giffen and I are left alive. 
 
 Word of gloom from the war, one day ; 
 Johnson pressed at the front, they say. 
 Little Giffen was up and a^ay ; 
 A tear — his first — as he bade good-by, 
 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye, 
 "'I'll write, if spared!" There was 
 
 news of the fight ; 
 But none of Giffen. He did not write. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that, were I king 
 Of the princely knights of the golden 
 
 ring, 
 With the song of the minstrel in mine 
 
 ear, 
 And the tender legend that trembles 
 
 here, 
 I'd give the best on his bended knee, 
 The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
 For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 
 
 GBA Y. 
 
 Something so human-hearted 
 
 In a tint that ever lies 
 Where a splendor has just departed 
 
 And a glory is yet to rise! 
 
 Gray in the solemn gloaming, 
 Gray in the dawning skies ; 
 
 In the old man's crown of honor. 
 In the little maiden's eyes. 
 
 Gray mists o'er the meadows brood- 
 ing, 
 Whence the ^\orld must draw its 
 best ; 
 Gray gleams in the churchyard 
 shadows, 
 Where all the world would " rest." 
 
 Gray gloom in the grand cathedral, 
 Where the " Glorias" are poured. 
 
 And, with angel and archangel, 
 We wait the coming Lord. 
 
 Silvery gray for the bridal. 
 
 Leaden gray for the pall ; 
 For urn, for wreath, for life and death. 
 
 Ever the (rrai/ for all. 
 
Gray in the very sadness 
 
 Of ashes and sackcloth ; yea, 
 While our raiment of beauty and 
 gladness 
 Tarries, our tear^ shall stay; 
 And our soul shall smile through 
 
 their sadness, 
 And our hearts shall wear the Gray. 
 
 Henry Timrod. 
 
 HARK TO THE SHOUTING WIND! 
 
 Hark to the shouting wind! 
 
 Hark to the flying rain ! 
 And I care not though I never see 
 
 A bright blue sky again. • 
 
 There are thoughts in my breast to- 
 day 
 
 That are not for human speech ; 
 But I hear them in the driving storm. 
 
 And the roar upon the beach. 
 
 And oh ! to be with that ship 
 
 That I watch through the blinding 
 brine ! 
 
 wind ! for thy sweep of land and 
 
 sea! 
 O sea! for a voice like thine! 
 
 Shout on, thou pitiless wind. 
 To the frightened and flying rain ! 
 
 1 care not though I never see 
 A calm blue sky again. 
 
 Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 
 Which keep in trust your storied 
 tombs. 
 Behold ! your sisters bring their 
 tears, 
 And these memorial blooms. 
 
 Small tributes ! but your shades will 
 smile 
 More proudly on those wreaths to- 
 day. 
 Than when some cannon-moulded 
 pile 
 Shall overlook this bay. 
 
 Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! 
 
 There is no holier spot of ground 
 Than where defeated valor lies. 
 
 By mourning beauty crowned. 
 
 DECORATION ODE. 
 
 Sung at Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, 
 S. C. 1867. 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble 
 graves, 
 
 Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
 Though yet no marble column craves 
 
 The pilgrim here to pause. 
 
 In seeds of laurel in the earth 
 The blossom of yom- fame is 
 blown. 
 
 And somewhere waiting for its birth, 
 The shaft is in the stone. 
 
 A COMMON THOUGHT. 
 
 Somewhere on this earthly planet, 
 In the dust of flowers to be. 
 
 In the dew-drop, in the sunshine, 
 Sleeps a solemn day for me. 
 
 At this wakeful hour of midnight 
 
 I behold it dawn in mist. 
 And I hear a sound of sobbing 
 
 Through the darkness. Hist, oh, 
 hist! 
 
 In a dim and nmsky chamber, 
 
 I am breathing life away! 
 Some one draws a curtain softly. 
 
 And I watch the broadening day. 
 
 As it purples in the zenith. 
 As it brightens on the lawn. 
 
 There's a hush of death about me. 
 And a whisper, '' He is gone!" 
 
 Isaac Watts. 
 
 INSIGNIFICA N T EX IS TENCE. 
 
 There are a number of us creep 
 Into this world, to eat and sleep; 
 And know no reason why we're born, 
 But only to consume the corn, 
 
856 
 
 WELBF— WHITMAN. 
 
 Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish, 
 And leave behind an empty dish. 
 The crows and ravens do the same, 
 Unlucky birds of hateful name; 
 Kavens oi- crows might fill tlieir 
 
 places, 
 And swallow corn and carcases. 
 Then if their tombstone, when they 
 
 die, 
 Be n't taugiit to flatter and to lie. 
 There's nothing better will be said 
 Than that "they've eat up all their 
 
 bread, 
 Drunlc up their drink, and gone to 
 
 bed." 
 
 LOBD, WHEN I QUIT THIS 
 EARTHLY STAGE. 
 
 Lord, wlien I quit tliis eartlily 
 stage, 
 
 Where shall I flee but to thy breast? 
 For I have sought no other home. 
 
 For I have learned no other rest. 
 
 I cannot live contented here, 
 
 Without some glimpses of thy face; 
 And heaven, without thy presence 
 there. 
 Would be a dark and tiresome 
 place. 
 
 My God! Andean a humble child. 
 That loves thee with a flame so 
 high. 
 
 Be ever from thy face exiled, 
 Witliout the pity of thy eye ? 
 
 Impossible. For thine own hands 
 Have tied my heart so fast to tliee. 
 
 And in thy book tlie promise stands. 
 That where thou art thy friends 
 must be. 
 
 THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 
 
 There is a land of pure delight. 
 Where saints immortal reign ; 
 
 Eternal day excludes tlie night, 
 And pleasures banish pain. 
 
 There everlasting spring abides, 
 And never-fading flowers ; 
 
 Death, like a narrow sea divides 
 This heavenly land fi'om ours. 
 
 Sweet fields, beyond the swelling 
 flood. 
 
 Stand dressed in living green : 
 So to the JeAvs fair Canaan stood, 
 
 Wliile Jordan rolled between. 
 
 But timorous mortals start and 
 shrink. 
 
 To cross this narrow sea; 
 And linger, trembling, on the brink. 
 
 And fear to launch away. 
 
 Oh, could we make our doubts re- 
 move. 
 
 Those gloomy doubts that rise, 
 And see the Canaan tliat we love 
 
 With unbeclouded eyes ; — 
 
 Could we but climb where Moses 
 stood. 
 And view the landscape o'er. 
 Not Jordan's stream — nor death's 
 cold flood. 
 Should friglit us from the shore. 
 
 Amelia B. Welby. 
 
 TWILIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 The twilight hours, like birds, flew 
 by, 
 
 As lightly and as free ; 
 Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 
 
 Ten thousand on tlie sea. 
 
 For every wave witli dhnpled face 
 
 That leaped upon the air, 
 Had caught a star in its embrace 
 
 And held it trembling there. 
 
 Sarah H, Whitman. 
 
 SONNETS TO EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 When first I looked into thy glorious 
 
 eyes, 
 And saw, with their unearthly beauty 
 
 pained, 
 
WHITMAN. 
 
 Heaven deepening within heaven, 
 
 like the skies 
 Of autumn nights without a shadow 
 
 stained, — 
 I stood as one whom some strange 
 
 dream entliralls: 
 For, far away, in some lost life 
 
 divine. 
 Some land which every glorious 
 
 dream recalls, 
 A spirit looked on me with eyes like 
 
 thine. 
 E'en now, though death has veiled 
 
 their starry light. 
 And closed their lids in his relentless 
 
 night — 
 As some strange dream, remembered 
 
 in a dream. 
 Again I see in sleep their tender 
 
 beam ; 
 Unfading hopes their cloudless azure 
 
 fill. 
 Heaven deepening within heaven, 
 
 sei'ene and still. 
 
 If thy sad heart, pining for human 
 love, 
 
 In its earth solitude grew dark with 
 fear. 
 
 Lest the high sun of heaven itseif 
 should prove 
 
 Powerless to save from that phantas- 
 mal sphere 
 
 Wherein thy spirit wandered — if the 
 flowers 
 
 That pressed around thy feet seemed 
 but to bloom 
 
 In lone Gethseinanes, through star- 
 less hours, 
 
 When all who loved had left thee to 
 thy doom ! — 
 
 Oh, yet believe that in that hollow 
 vale 
 
 Where thy soul lingers, waiting to at- 
 tain 
 
 So much of Heaven's sweet grace as 
 shall avail 
 
 To lift its burden of remorseful 
 pain, — 
 
 My soul shall meet thee, and its 
 heaven forego 
 
 Till God's great love on both, one 
 hope, one Heaven, bestow. 
 
 THE LAST FLOWERS. 
 
 Dost thou remember that autumnal 
 day 
 When by the Seekonk's lovely 
 wave we stood. 
 And marked the languor of repose 
 that lay. 
 Softer than sleep, on valley, wave, 
 and wood? 
 
 A trance of holy sadness seemed to 
 lull 
 The charmed earth and circinn- 
 ambient air; 
 And the low murmur of the leaves 
 seemed full 
 Of a resigned and passionless des- 
 pair. 
 
 Though the warm breath of sunuuer 
 lingered still 
 In the lone paths where late her 
 footsteps passed. 
 The pallid star-llowers on the pur]>le 
 hill 
 Sighed dreamily, " We are the last 
 — the last!" 
 
 I stood beside thee, and a dream of 
 heaven 
 Around me like a golden halo fell! 
 Then the bright veil of fantasy was 
 riven, 
 And my lips nmrmured, "Fare 
 thee well! farewell!" 
 
 I dared not listen to thy words, nor 
 tiu'n 
 To meet the mystic language of 
 thine eyes; 
 I only felt their power, and in the 
 urn 
 Of memory, treasured their sweet 
 rhapsodies. 
 
 We parted then, forever — and the 
 hours 
 Of that bright day were gathered to 
 the past — 
 But through long, wintry nights I 
 heard the flowers 
 Sigh dreamily, " AVe are the last! 
 — the last! " 
 
858 
 
 YOUNO. 
 
 William Young. 
 
 THE HORSEMAN. 
 
 Who is it rides with whip and spur — 
 Or madman, oi" king's messenger? 
 
 The night is near, the lights begin 
 To glimmer from the roadside inn. 
 
 And o'er the moorland, waste and 
 
 wide, 
 The mists behind the horseman ride. 
 
 " Ho, there within — a stirrup-cup! 
 No time have I to sleep or sup. 
 
 " An honest cup! — and mingle well 
 The juices that have stiU the" spell 
 
 "To banish doubt and care, and 
 
 slay 
 The ghosts that prowl the king's 
 
 highway." 
 
 "And whither dost thou ride, my 
 
 friend ?" 
 "My friend, to find tlie roadway's 
 
 end. ' ' 
 
 His eyeballs shone: he caught and 
 
 quaffed. 
 With scornful lips, the burning 
 
 draught. 
 
 " Yea, friend, I ride to prove my 
 
 life; 
 If there be guerdon worth the strife — 
 
 " If after loss, and after gain. 
 And after bliss, and after pain, 
 
 " There be no deeper draught than 
 
 this — 
 No sharper pain — no sweeter bliss — 
 
 " Nor anything which yet I crave 
 This side, or yet beyond the grave — 
 
 '' All this, all this I ride to know; 
 So pledge me, gray-beard, ere I go.'' 
 
 "But gold thou hast: and youth is 
 
 thine. 
 And on thy breast the blazoned sign 
 
 "Of honor — yea, and Love hath 
 
 bound. 
 With rose and leaf thy temples round. 
 
 "With youth, and name, and wealth 
 
 in store. 
 And woman's love, what wilt thou 
 
 more? " 
 
 " * What more ? ' ' what more ? ' thou 
 gray-beard wight? 
 
 That something yet — that one de- 
 light— 
 
 "To know! to know! — although it 
 
 be 
 To know but endless misery! 
 
 " The something that doth beckon 
 
 still, 
 Beyond the plain, beyond the hill, 
 
 " Beyond the moon, beyond the sun, 
 Where yonder shining coursers run. 
 
 "Farewell! Where'er the pathway 
 
 trend, 
 1 ride, I ride, to fuid the end! " 
 
INDEX TO FIEST LTOES 
 
 A bee flew in at my window, Kimball, 319 
 
 Abide not in the land of dreams, Burleigh, 809 
 
 Abide with me ! fast falls the eventide Lyfe, 353 
 
 A bird sang sweet and strong Curtis, 181 
 
 A blue-eyed child that sits amid the noon, Bennett, 37 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) Hunt 299 
 
 A brace of sinners, for no good Wolcot, 792 
 
 A certain artist — I've forgot his name — Btjrom, 706 
 
 A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Campbell Ill 
 
 A clergyman who longed to trace, J^- Bates, 687 
 
 irHson, 657 
 
 Thaxter 591 
 
 E. D. Proctor, ... 449 
 
 Palmer 762 
 
 40 
 
 84 
 
 677 
 437 
 792 
 207 
 
 A cloud lay cradled near the .setting sun, 
 
 Across the narrow beach we flit. 
 
 Across the steppe we journeyed, 
 
 A district school, not far away, . 
 
 Advancing Spring profusely spreads abroad, .... Bloomfield 
 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever Burns. . 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous well Wi/att, . 
 
 Afar in the desert I love to ri47 
 
 A lily rooted in a sacred soil, /'Iu'ljis, 410 
 
 A little child, beneath a tree MacL-itij 361 
 
 A little hand, a fair soft hand, Spofford, ...... 5.'j0 
 
 All are not taken ! they are left behind, E.'ji. Broirnhif/, . . 03 
 
 All beautiful things bring sadness, Trench, ...... 603 
 
 All clianiii- ; no death, E. Yotiiuj, 683 
 
 All con(iu»st-liushed, from prostrate Python, came, . . Thomson r)!).5 
 
 All day 1 heard a humming in my ears Boler, 4.") 
 
 Scott, 4S(t 
 
 G. Arnold, 23 
 
 E. Young 677 
 
 .3.5 
 (ill 
 
 All joy was bereft me the ilay that you left me 
 All moveless stand the ancient cedar trees 
 All promise is poor dilatory man, . . . 
 
 " All quiet along the Potomac," they say Beers, 
 
 All round the lalce the wet woods shake, Trou'brkhje, 
 
 All the kisses that 1 have given C. F. Bates, .... .31 
 
 " All the rivers run into the sea," Phelps, 4l() 
 
 All the world's a stage, Shakespeare, .... 4X4 
 
 All tilings have a doulilc power R. Southey, .... ."Jlti 
 
 All tilings once arc things for ever ; Lord Houqhfon, . . . 28!) 
 
 All Ihouglits, all passidiis, all delights S. T. Voler'tdije, . . . 141 
 
 All winter drives along the darkened air, Thomson, . . . . . 593 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt ill gloom, Campbell, 109 
 
 Almighty Father ! let thy lowly child, E. Elliott, 212 
 
 Almost at the root, . . . . " Wordsworth, .... 669 
 
 Alone 1 walked the ocean strand, Gould, 238 
 
 A lovely sky, a cloudless sun, Street .548 
 
 Although 1 enter not, Thach-rm/ .'jss 
 
 A man's life is a tower, Tupjirr, (;20 
 
 A man so various that he seemed to be, Drijden, 722 
 
 A man there came, whence none could tell, Allingham, .... Is 
 
 Amid the elms that interlace Crunch, 174 
 
 A moiiarcli soul hath ruled thyself, O Queen, . . . . C. E. Bates, .... 31 
 
 Among so many, can He care? Whitney, 638 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true? Mickle 372 
 
 And greedy Avarice by him did ride, E. Sjienser, .... .525 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now, .... Byron, 103 
 
 And is there care in heaven ? E. Spenser, .... .528 
 
 And is the swallow gone? W. Hoioitt, .... 2!it; 
 
 And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace, Scott, 477 
 
 And now arriving at the Hall, he tried, Crabbe 719 
 
 And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed, . . . Pope, 767 
 
 And now, while winged with ruin from on high, . . . Falconer, 217 
 
 And oh, the longing, burning eye ! Leiand, 339 
 
 And such is Human Life ; so, gliding on, liogers, 462 
 
 And thou hast stolen a jewel. Death Masse;/ .368 
 
 And thou hast walked about, H. Smith, 511 
 
 And was it not enough that, meekly growing, .... Se.aver, 482 
 
 And were that best. Love, dreamless, endless sleep?. . Gilder, 233 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe Byron li)5 
 
 Angels are we, that, once from heaven exiled, .... Trench 606 
 
 Anon tired laborers bless their sheltering home, . . . Bloomlield, .... 4(t 
 
 An original something, fair maid Campbell, 708 
 
 Answer me, burning stars of night ! Hemans 261 
 
 A poet ! He hath put his heart to school, Wordsujorth, .... <)74 
 
 A power hid in pathos ; a lire veiled in cloud : .... I!. B. Lyttnn S41 
 
 April is in ; Symonils, .5,59 
 
 Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim, Campbell, 117 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, S. T. Coleridr/e, . . . 135 
 
 Arrived at home, how then they gazed around, . . . . Crabbe, ..'.... 165 
 
 A sad old house by the sea, //.//. Brownell. ... .58 
 
 As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, //. W. Lonr/fellow, . . .34» 
 
 As doctors give physic by way of prevention Prior, .'.".... 772 
 
 As dyed in blood, the streaming vines appear, .... C.F.Bates, .... 31 
 
 A sensitive plant in a garden grew, Shelley, 493 
 
 A sentence hath formed a character Tupper, 619 
 
 A sentinel angel sitting high in glory, Ha'.l, -'54 
 
 A serener blue ' Tli'omson, 592 
 
 As 1 came round the harbor buoy /nqelow, 307 
 
 A simple child, Wordsworth, .... 673 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 861 
 
 A simple, sodded mound of earth, J'reston, 435 
 
 As I was sitting in a wood, Mackay 757 
 
 Ask me no more ; the moon may draw the sea, .... Tennyson 578 
 
 Ask me no moi-e where Jove bestows, ....... Careir, 118 
 
 Ask me why 1 send you here HerricI:, . . . 
 
 A slanting ray of evening light, J. Taylor, . . 
 
 As leaves turned red, i^. Batcn, . . 
 
 As light November snows to empty nests, £. B. Broivn'mg, 
 
 As lords their laborers' hire delay, Scott 
 
 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in .\lgiers C. E. S. Norton, 
 
 A sower went forth to sow, 
 
 u'66 
 572 
 32 
 67 
 479 
 397 
 GihJer 231 
 
 As precious gums are not for lasting fire, JOryden, 2(16 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay, Clough, 131 
 
 As slow our ship her foaming track, Moore, 388 
 
 As sweet as the breath that goes, T. B. Alilrich, ... 10 
 
 As sweet desire of day before the day, Sivinhurne, .... 552 
 
 A steed, a steed of matchless speed ! Moiherirell, .... 392 
 
 A street there is in Paris famous, Thackeray, .... 782 
 
 As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood, .... Abbey 2 
 
 As through the land at eve we went, Tennyson .577 
 
 A story of Ponce de Leon, Buttericorth, .... sn 
 
 A summer mist on the moimtain heights, Webster 631 
 
 As virtuous men pass mildly away, Donne, 818 
 
 As when a little child returned from play, Miller, 373 
 
 As when in watches of the night we see, Appleton, 19 
 
 As woodbine weds the plants, Cou'per 161 
 
 At dawn the fleet stretched miles away, J. T. Fields, .... 225 
 
 At dawn when the jubilant morning broke, J. C. li. Dorr, . . . 196 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy forever, Keats, 312 
 
 A thousand daily sects rise up and die Dry den 205 
 
 A thousand years shall come and go R. T. Cooke, .... 1.52 
 
 At kirk knelt Valborg, the cold altar-stone, G. Jlovyhton, .... 284 
 
 At midnight in his guarded tent, Halleck, ...... 248 
 
 At our creation, but the word was said ; Quarles, .' . . . . 4.51 
 
 A traveller across the desert waste, Abbey, 1 
 
 At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow, .... Campbell, 115 
 
 Autobiography ! so you say, Havergal, 823 
 
 Avoid extremes ; and shun the fault of such, .... Pope, 432 
 
 A weary weed, tossed to and fro, Fenner 222 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea, Cnnninyliam, . . . . 180 
 
 A wife, as tender, and as true withal, Dry den, 206 
 
 Ay, scatter me well, 'tis a moist spring day, E. Cook, 149 
 
 Ay, but to die, and go we know not where", Shakespeare, .... 487 
 
 Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, . . 
 
 Bards of passion and of mirth, 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Becalmed along the azure sky, 
 
 Because I feel that, in the heavens above, 
 
 Because I hold it sinful to despond, 
 
 Because in a day of my days to come, 
 
 Because 1 wear the swaddling bands of time, .... 
 
 Because love's sigh is but a sigh, 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee, 
 
 Behold her there in the evening sun, 
 
 Behold the rocky wall, 
 
 Believe not that your inner eye, 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 
 
 Bending between me and the taper, 
 
 Beneath the hill you may see the mill 
 
 Beneath yon tree, observe an ancient pair, 
 
 Benighted in my pilgrimage, — alone, — 
 
 Be patient ! oh, be patient ! Put your ear against the earth. 
 
 Beside me, — in the car, — .^she sat 
 
 Beside yon strnggling fence that skirts the way, . . . 
 Be thoii familiar, hut by no means vulgar, .'. . . . 
 
 Better trust all and be deceived, 
 
 Beyond the smiling and the weeping, 
 
 Bird of the wilderness, 
 
 Allen 15 
 
 Keals, 311 
 
 li. Broirninr/ 69 
 
 Troicbridge 609 
 
 Poe, 425 
 
 Thaxter, 589 
 
 Sanqster, 468 
 
 5. fl. Palfrey, ... 847 
 
 Winter, 660 
 
 A. A. Procter, ... 442 
 
 Larcom, 330 
 
 Holmes, 279 
 
 Lord Houghton. . . . 287 
 
 Hood, .' 7.39 
 
 A. T. De Fere. . . . 185 
 
 Saxe, 474 
 
 Crabbe, 168 
 
 Tilton 602 
 
 Trench, 604 
 
 Clovf/h 132 
 
 Goldsmith, .... 235 
 
 Shakespeare, .... 485 
 
 Kemble 318 
 
 Bonar, 48 
 
 Hofju, ...... 271 
 
Black boughs against a pale, clear sky, 
 
 Black Tragedy let slip her grim disguise 
 
 Blame not the times in which we live, 
 
 Blessed is he who hath not trod the ways, 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man, . . . .... 
 
 Blesseil is the man whose heart and hands are pure ! 
 
 Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 
 Blow, northern winds ! 
 
 Bonnie Tililiif Iiiglis, . . . . . .... 
 
 Bowed half Willi aL;i' and half with reverence, . . . 
 Brave spirit, that will brook no intervention, . . . 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, .... 
 Briglit as the pillar rose at Heaven's command, . . 
 Bright books ! the perspectives to our weak sights, . 
 Bright shadows of true rest ! some shoots of bliss, 
 Bright Star ! would 1 were steadfast as thou art, . . 
 
 Bring poppies for a weary mind, 
 
 Brown bird, with a \\is2) in your mouth 
 
 Burly, dozing humble-bee, 
 
 " But a week is so long ! " he said, 
 
 But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime, .... 
 But happy they ! the happiest of their kind ! ... 
 
 But list ! a low and moaning sound, 
 
 But not e'en pleasure to excess is good 
 
 But now the games succeeded, then a pause, .... 
 But what strange art, what magic can dispose, . . . 
 
 But who the melodies of inoru can tell ? 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain, 
 
 By numbers here from shame or censure free, . . . 
 
 By the flow of the inland river 
 
 By the motes do we know where the sunbeam is slanting 
 
 By the pleasant paths we know, = . 
 
 By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
 
 By these mysterious ties, the busy power, 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
 
 Calm on the bosom of our God, 
 
 Care lives with all ; no rules, no precepts save, . . . 
 
 Centre of light and energy ! thy way, 
 
 Charlemagne, the mighty monarch, 
 
 Cheap, mighty art ! her art of love, 
 
 Children, that lay their pretty garlands by, .... 
 " Choose thou between ! " and to his enemy, . . . 
 
 Christ, whose glory Alls the skies 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake 
 
 Cleon hath ten thousand acres, 
 
 Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 
 
 Cold in the earth — and the deep snow, 
 
 Cold is the piean honor sings, 
 
 Come a little nearer, doctor, — 
 
 Come, brother, turn with me from pining thought, . 
 Come, come, come, my love, come and hiu'ry, . . . 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud 
 
 Come, let us anew our journey pursue, 
 
 Come, listen all unto my song, 
 
 Come live with me and be my love, 
 
 Come not when I am dead, 
 
 Come, sleep, O sleep, the certain knot of peace, . . 
 
 Comes something down with evt^ntide, 
 
 Come, then, rare politicians of the time, 
 
 Come, then, tell me, sage divine, 
 
 Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish, . . . 
 
 Companion dear ! the hour draws nigh ; 
 
 Contide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, 
 
 Consider the sea's listless chime ; 
 
 " Coquette," my love they sometimes call, .... 
 
 Lazarus, oi>7 
 
 T. B. Aldrich, ... lli 
 
 Symonds, .55!) 
 
 A. T. De Vere, ... 186 
 
 Whittier, 63!) 
 
 Sjimonds, 558 
 
 Shakcspciiri' 484 
 
 Hopkins 828 
 
 M. J/dirit/ 2!)5 
 
 A. Fh-Uh, 2l'4 
 
 Richdrdson, .... 458 
 
 Tennyson, 584 
 
 Hcott, 478 
 
 Campbe/l, 11(> 
 
 ]'au()lian, 62f> 
 
 Vaug/ian, 024 
 
 Keats, 311 
 
 Winter, 658 
 
 Braddock, 805 
 
 Emerson, 214 
 
 J. C. Ji. Dorr, . . . 195 
 
 S. Johnson, .... 3U8 
 
 Thomson 5!)1 
 
 If'ilson, 657 
 
 Thomson, 596 
 
 A. Fields, ..... 223 
 
 Crahbe, 170 
 
 Seattle, 34 
 
 Alexander, .... 12 
 
 S. Johnsoi], .... .109 
 
 Finch, 227 
 
 M. M. Dodye, . . . 192 
 
 Prescott, 433 
 
 Emerson, 215 
 
 Akenside, 5 
 
 Hoyt, 296 
 
 Bonar 48 
 
 Hemans 263 
 
 Crabbe, 169 
 
 Percival 411 
 
 W. A. Butler, ... 87 
 
 Vauqhan, 622 
 
 Craik 172 
 
 Bensel, 38 
 
 Wesley 632 
 
 Btfron, 101 
 
 3iackay 362 
 
 Boker 47 
 
 E. Bronte, .54 
 
 Winter, 001 
 
 Witlson, 655 
 
 Da7ia 182 
 
 Biordan, 850 
 
 H. K. White, .... 035 
 
 Tenni/son, 508 
 
 Wesley 633 
 
 Saxe 775 
 
 Marlowe 842 
 
 Tennyson 585 
 
 Sidnei/ 499 
 
 Burbidye 809 
 
 Vatcyhan, 623 
 
 Akenside, 4 
 
 Moore, 387 
 
 Sigournc'i/ 499 
 
 Ballanti/ne 28 
 
 V. G. Bossetti, ... 467 
 
 Uobertson 851 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 863 
 
 Couched in the rocky lap of hills, Coolidge, 814 
 
 Could we but know, Sfedmau, 536 
 
 Could you come back to me, Douglas, Craik, 172 
 
 Count each affliction, whether light or grave, . . . A. T. DeWn-. . . . im 
 
 Crouch no more by the ivied walls, Stedman, 537 
 
 Crushing the scarlet strawberries in the grass Thaxter, 589 
 
 / Darkness before, all joy behind ! G. Jlouglilon, . . . . 285 
 
 Darlings of the forest Cooke, 152 
 
 Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane; Burlngh, 8U9 
 
 Daughter of Love ! Out of the flowing river A. Fields 223 
 
 Day dawned : — within a curtained room A. A. Procter, . . . 445 
 
 Day, in melting puri)le dying ; lirooKs, 55 
 
 Day, like a flower, blossoms from the night, Shu7-tleff, 852 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn, H. Smitli, 510 
 
 Day will return with'a fresher boon ; lloUand, 272 
 
 Dead, lonely night, and all streets quiet now, .... Morrin 390 
 
 Dead? Thirteen a month ago, E. Ji. Ilrotrning, . . Gl 
 
 Dear child of nature, let them rail ! U'ordsirorth, .... G71 
 
 Dear Ellen, your tales are all plenteously stored, . . . ISlooinfield, .... 43 
 
 Dear friend, far otf, my lost desire Tennyson, .576 
 
 Dear friend, I know not if such days and nights, . . . Symonds, 560 
 
 Dear, harmless age ! the short, swift span, Vauc/han, 622 
 
 Dear, secret greenness ! nurst below ! Vawjlian, 621 
 
 Deatli but entombs the body ; ■ . . . . E. Young, 681 
 
 Death is here, and death is there Shelley, 492 
 
 Deep in the wave is a coral grove Percival, 413 
 
 Dey vented to the Opera Haus, Leland, 744 
 
 Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, . . . Baillie, 27 
 
 Did you hear of the Widow Malone Lever, 745 
 
 Die down, O dismal day, and let me live ; D. Gray, 822 
 
 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars, .... Dryden. 204 
 
 Discard soft nonsense in a slavish tongue, W. Collins, .... 145 
 
 Discourage not thyself, my soul, Wither, 663 
 
 Disdain me not without desert, Wyait, 677 
 
 Distrust that word E. n. liroieniny, . . 688 
 
 Do, and suffer naught in vain ; E. Elliott, 212 
 
 Does the road winil up-hill all the way ? C. G. liossetti. ... 464 
 
 Dost know the way to Paradise? Hutchinson, .... 830 
 
 Dost thou remember that autumnal day, Whitman, 857 
 
 Do the dead carry their cares, JI. H. Broicnell, ... 58 
 
 Doubtless the pleasure is as great, .S'. Butler, 701 
 
 Down by the river's bank I strayed, Lover, .'!47 
 
 Dow's Flat. That's its name, Bret Ilarte 727 
 
 Do you remember, my sweet, absent son G. P. Lathrop, . . . 334 
 
 Drink to me only Avitii thine eyes, Jonson, 309 
 
 Dubius is such a scrupulous good man, Coivper, 714 
 
 Earl March looked on his dying child, Campbell, 115 
 
 Earth gets its price for what earth gives us, Lnirell, 349 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair, Wordsivorth 673 
 
 Eftsoones unto an holy hospital, Spenser, 527 
 
 Erewhile the sap has had its will, Hopkins, 829 
 
 Eternal spirit of the chainless mind Byron, 93 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky, Wordsivorth 673 
 
 Even as a nurse, whose child's impatient pace, . . . . Vauyhan 626 
 
 Ever let the fancy roam ; Keats, 311 
 
 Every coin of earthly treasure Saxe, 476 
 
 Every wedding, says' the proverb, Parsons, 410 
 
 . . 2dG 
 
 . . 130 
 
 . . 258 
 
 . . 124 
 
 . . 92 
 
 . . 487 
 
 Fair as the dawn of the fairest day, Hayne 
 
 Fair is thy face, Nantasket, Clemmer 
 
 Fair time of calm resolve — of sober thought ! 
 
 False and fickle, or fair and sweet, 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 
 
 Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness ! . 
 
 Farewell, Life ! my senses swim, 
 
 Farewell, old frieiid,— we part at last ; . . . . 
 Farewell, Renown ! Too fleeting flower, . . . 
 
 Hedderwick, . . 
 P. Carey, . . . 
 
 Byron 
 
 Shakespeare, . . 
 
 Hood 2S3 
 
 E. Cook, 150 
 
 Dobson, 190 
 
864 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 Farewell ! since nevermore for thee, Hervey 268 
 
 Farewell, thou busy world, antl may Cotton 154 
 
 Father, 1 will not ask for wealth or fame J'arker, 406 
 
 Father of all ! in every age, Pope, 4:B 
 
 Fear ileath ? — to feel the fog in my throat 1\. Brovning, ... 68 
 
 ?^ear no more the heat o' the sun, Shakespeare, .... 488 
 
 Fever and fret and aimless stir, Fnher, 217 
 
 Few know of life's beginnings — men behold— .... Laiidon 326 
 
 First follow Nature, and your judgment frame, . . . Pope, 4:52 
 
 First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw, . . Crubhe, 717 
 
 First time he kissed me, he but only kissed, K. B. Broiniiiu/, . . 64 
 
 Fixed to her necklace, like another gem, T. B. Aldrich, ... 12 
 
 Flutes in the sunny air ! Hervey, 267 
 
 Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, .... Milton 374 
 
 Fly fro' the press, and dwell with soothfastnesse, . . . Chmirer, 811 
 
 Foes to our race ! if ever ye have known, Cnibhe 168 
 
 Foiled by our fellow-men, depressed, outworn M. Arnokl 24 
 
 " Forever with the Lord ! " Montgomery, .... ."85 
 
 For every sin that comes before the light, J. B. (T Ueilly, . . . 401 
 
 " Forget me not." Ah, words of useless warning, . . . Sargent, 469 
 
 For him who must see many years, M. Arnold, .... 25 
 
 For Love I labored all the day Bnuiditlon, .... 50 
 
 For mystery is man's life Tupper, 620 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched, .... S. T. Coleridge, . . . 125 
 
 For us the almond tree, Tilton, 598 
 
 For woman is not undeveloped man, Tennyson, 578 
 
 Four straight brick Avails, severely plain Mitchell, 844 
 
 Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, .... Loirell, 3.51 
 
 Friend after friend departs ; Montgomery, .... .jSl 
 
 Friendship, like love is but a name, oliticiaus look for facts alone, Crahhe, 717 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 865 
 
 Green be the turf above thee Hailed: 
 
 Green little vaulter" in the sunny grass, ] Hunt '. ! 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Lor/an 
 
 Hail, free, clear heavens ! above our heads again, . . . Lazarus' 
 
 Hail, holy Liglit, offspring of Heaven tirst-born, . . . Mikoii ' 
 
 Hail ! Independence, hail ! Heaven's next best gift, . . Thomson 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit, Sliellci/ ' 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour, ". '. '. '. morris worth 
 
 Mad unambitious mortals minded nought, Thomson ' 
 
 Half a league, half a league, ' ' Teuni/wn 
 
 Hamelin town's in Brunswick '. [ n. Biowidm, 
 
 Hand m hand with angels, Larcom 
 
 Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and even, ." .' .' .' A. T He Vere 
 
 2r,l 
 300 
 
 341 
 336 
 381 
 594 
 490 
 072 
 
 r>!»c 
 r.s4 
 
 Ci)0 
 332 
 1.S", 
 
 Prior, . . . 4-j9 
 
 Street, ...'..'. r,4!) 
 
 Cmrper, joi 
 
 . 83;» 
 
 Ha!)i>y the mortal man. who now at last, .... 
 
 Hark, that sweet carol ! Witli delight 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn ! o'er yonder bridge 
 
 Hark to the measured march ! — The Saxons come, . . £. li. Liitton 
 
 Hark to tlie shouting wind ! Timrod ' ' ' 
 
 Hark ! where the sweeping scythe now rips along,' '. ' Bloomiie'ld ' 
 
 llast thou a charm to stay tlie morning star ,S'. T 'ColerUh/p ' 
 
 Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? . . . . Emerson, . .' ' ' ' -m 
 
 Hath this world without me wrought Hedge, .....'. 2.59 
 
 "oh 
 
 41 
 13,S 
 
 Have mind that age aye follows youth, .... Dunbar 
 
 Have you not heard the iMiets tell ' " tB il'drirh' ' ' 
 
 Hearing sweet music, as in fell despite, Treiicli ' ■ ■ 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells— .... /v,^ ' 
 
 60.'-) 
 424 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells— ^„p ,.,, 
 
 Heart of my heart ! when that great light shall fall, '. Hitter sr.f 
 
 Heaits, like api)les, are hard and sour, . ... 
 Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn 
 He erred, no doubt, perhaps he sinned : . . . 
 
 286 
 
 Ho/land, 237 
 
 Tennyson, 585 
 
 He falters on the th^sl^oidrrrTr-. ! ! ! ' " " Howelif'°'' 'it 
 
 He had played for his lordship's levee, .' Dobson ' url 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth makes free Coivner i^t^ 
 
 He knew the seat of Paradise, v liifLr Ift, 
 
 Hence, loathed Melancholy, . . . . . Milton •^-- 
 
 Hence to the altar, and with her thou lov'st, . . . .' Boaers' diii 
 
 Hence vain deluding joys, '....: S,!; ! ! .' : ' * t% 
 
 Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere, Boberts 
 
 Here IS the water-shed of all the year, B 
 
 Here she lies, a pretty bud, ....... 
 
 Here, too, came one who bartered all for power' 
 Her hands are cold, her face is white ; . . . 
 Herr Schnitzer make a philosopede, ....'' 
 
 Her suttering endeil with the day : . 
 
 He saw in sight of his house, 
 
 He sins against this life who slights the next.' 
 
 He sits among " 
 
 He taught 
 
 He that lov^„ ,. .„..j ..ucciv /., 
 
 He took the suttering human 'race,' '.'.'.'..''' Af'^^JrnJ,! Hf 
 
 He touched his harp, and nations heard, ....'' Polloh a~:1 
 
 He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, " SirH'ranlor ' ' ■ ^~^ 
 
 He was a man whom danger could not daunt, . . . sir A he Vere 
 
 4.'')9 
 
 U. Johnson, . . . 834 
 
 Herrick, '^66 
 
 Mitchell, 370 
 
 Holmes, 278 
 
 Leiand, 745 
 
 J. Aldrich, 8 
 
 Stoddard, 780 
 
 E. Yonnci 681 
 
 long the morning hills" ; ' Thorn Z TA 
 
 the cheerfulness that still is ours mZ^ard; ! ' ' ' 80' 
 
 ves a rosy cheek Carew '11s 
 
 le suttering human race, j\/ Ar'noi 
 
 d his harp, and nations heard Polio]- 
 
 nan of that unsleeping spirit, .... ' SirH.'Ti 
 
 ^ nan whom danger could not daunt, . . . '. Sir A Th 
 
 He was m logic a great critic c r,/,/^,. 
 
 He, while his troop light-hearted leap ami play, . .' ' Crahbe 
 
 He who died at Azan sends. ... h ,"tw. 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the (lead, .... ' ' Bnn 
 Higher, higher will we climb, .... • ■ • j^jn 
 
 High walls and huge the bodvmav confine, '.'.'' 
 
 Hints, shrewdly strown, mightily disturb the spirit . 
 
 His love hath tilled my life's fair cup, ... 
 
 Hither, Sleep ! a mother wants thee ! . . 
 
 Home they brought her warrior dead, ...::.'. jennnson r,-jr 
 
 Honor and shame from no cmidition rise, . . . . Pone a-I 
 
 Hoot, ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way, . '. ' Carlet'on 7no 
 
 How are songs begot and bred? .', siodd ril -ui 
 
 How beautiful is night ! . . yoiieiatd 541 
 
 r>6'j 
 
 184 
 ()!I9 
 164 
 21 
 
 Montrjomer;/ .';84 
 
 Garrison. ' 229 
 
 Tnpper. 017 
 
 M. A. iJe Vere. ... 817 
 
 Holland, ..... 274 
 
 Tennyson 577 
 
 Southey, 
 
 541 
 516 
 
866 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 How better am I 
 
 How blest should we be, have I often conceived, . . . 
 
 How canst thou call my modest love impure 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. 
 
 How delicious is the winning, 
 
 How does the water, . . . 
 
 How do 1 love thee ? Let me count the ways 
 
 How gracious we are to grant to the dead 
 
 How happy is he born and taught 
 
 How hard, when those wlio ilo not wish to lend, . . . 
 How, how am I deceived ! I thought my bed, . . . . 
 
 How looks Applcdore in a storm? 
 
 " How many pinuids does the baby weigh— 
 
 How many suuuners, love, 
 
 How miserable a thing is a great man ! 
 
 How much the heart may bear, and yet not break ! . . 
 
 How near we came the hand of death, 
 
 How oft in visions of the night, 
 
 How one can live on beauty and be rich, 
 
 How pleasant it is that always 
 
 How pure at heart ami sound in head, 
 
 How seldom, friend ! a good great man inherits, . . . 
 How shall I know thee in tlie sphere which keeps, . . 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
 
 How soon hath Time, the sid)lle thief of youth, . . . 
 
 How still the morning of tlie hallowed day ! 
 
 How sweet and gracious, even in common speech, . . 
 
 How vice and virtue in the soul contend ; 
 
 Ho ! ye who in the noble work, 
 
 Humanity is great ; 
 
 Husband and wife ! no converse now ye hold 
 
 Hush! speak low ; tread softly ; 
 
 Hush! 'tis a holy hour, — the quiet room, 
 
 I am an idle reed : 
 
 I am but clay in thy hands, but Thou 
 
 I am content, I do not care, 
 
 I am dying. Egypt, dying • 
 
 I'm far frae my hame, and I'u) weary aftenwhiles : . 
 
 I am Heiihaistos, and forever here, 
 
 1 am monarch of all I survey, 
 
 I am Nicholas Tacchinardi, — hunchbacked, look you, 
 
 I am thinking to-night of the little child ; 
 
 I asked my fair, one happy day, 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, . . . 
 
 I can go nowhere but I meet, 
 
 I cannot love thee, but I hold thee dear — . . . . 
 
 I cannot make him dead I 
 
 I care not. Fortune, what you me deny ; 
 
 I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, 
 I count my time by times that I meet thee, .... 
 
 I die for thy sweet love I Tlie ground, 
 
 I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, 
 
 I do not own an inch of land, 
 
 I don't go much on religion, 
 
 I'tl rather see an empty bough, — 
 
 1 dreamed I had a plot of ground, 
 
 If aught of oaten stop, or i>astoral song 
 
 I fear thee not, O Death ! nay, oft 1 pine 
 
 If I couhl ever sing the songs 
 
 If I had known in the morning, 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 If it must be — if it must be, O God ! 
 
 If life awake and will never cease, 
 
 If love were what the rose is, 
 
 If on the book itself we cast our view, 
 
 If on this verse of mine, 
 
 I found a fellow-worker, when I deemed, 
 
 If, sitting with this little worn-out shoe 
 
 Kimball,. . 
 M. B. Lytton, 
 
 Bnlcei; . . 
 Woochuorth, 
 Campbell, . 
 Ji. Southeij, 
 
 E. B. Browning, 
 S. M. B. Piatt, 
 Wotton, . 
 Hood, 
 Qiiarles, 
 Lowell, . . 
 Beers, . . 
 
 B. W. Procter 
 Croivne, . . 
 Allen, . . 
 Wither, . . 
 G. ,S'. Hillard. 
 Webster, . 
 
 F. Smith, . 
 Tennyson, . 
 
 S. T. Coleridge, 
 Bryant, . . 
 jr. Collins, 
 Milton, . . 
 Grahame, . 
 J. T. Fields 
 Crabbe, . , 
 Masse;/, . . 
 E. B. Browning, 
 Dana, . . . 
 A. A. Procter, 
 Hemans, . . 
 
 F. A. Hillard, 
 Cranch, . . 
 Byrom, . . 
 Lytle, . . 
 Demarest, . 
 
 A. Fields, . 
 Cowper, . . 
 J. T. Fields, 
 J. C. P. Dorr, 
 S. T. Coleridge, 
 Shelley, . 
 Cotton, . 
 F. Smith, 
 Pierpont, 
 Thomson, 
 Scott, . . 
 Gilder, . 
 
 B. W. Procter, 
 Ayfon, . , 
 Larcom, . 
 Hai/, . . , 
 Phelps, . , 
 A. Cary, 
 W. Collins, 
 Hayne, . , 
 Stoddard, . 
 Sane/. 'iter, , 
 Wolfe, . . 
 
 D. Grai/, 
 Holland, . 
 Sicin hurne, 
 JJrydeii. 
 
 E. Arnold, 
 O'Sham/hnessy 
 M. n. Smith, . 
 
 320 
 841 
 46 
 
 cm 
 
 110 
 521 
 
 64 
 420 
 676 
 741 
 451 
 356 
 
 32 
 445 
 179 
 
 14 
 6Gs 
 269 
 630 
 509 
 575 
 141 
 
 78 
 145 
 3M0 
 239 
 226 
 169 
 368 
 689 
 181 
 441 
 262 
 
 827 
 176 
 705 
 353 
 183 
 224 
 161 
 227 
 194 
 710 
 492 
 1.54 
 509 
 422 
 596 
 481 
 232 
 446 
 798 
 332 
 730 
 417 
 121 
 147 
 257 
 542 
 4(38 
 664 
 822 
 275 
 555 
 204 
 22 
 404 
 513 
 
INDEX TO FIB ST LINES. 
 
 867 
 
 If those, who live in shepherd's bower, . 
 
 If tliou wert by my side, my love, . . . 
 
 If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, 
 
 If to be absent, were to be, 
 
 If, when you labor all the day, .... 
 
 If you love me, tell me not ; 
 
 I gave my little girl back to the daisies, 
 
 I gazed upon the glorious sky, .... 
 
 I give thee treasures hour by hour, . . 
 
 I greet thee, loving letter — 
 
 1 grew assured before I asked, .... 
 
 I haf von funny leedle poy, 
 
 I have a little kinsman, . ' 
 
 I have been sitting alone, 
 
 I have had iilayniates, 1 have had companious 
 
 1 hear it often in the . Proctor, ... 448 
 
 Winter, ...... 660 
 
 Cniiirli, 719 
 
 Shiuns, 502 
 
 /,'. SjK'n.ft-r 526 
 
 A/liiiqham, .... 18 
 
 Burn's 698 
 
 E. Spenser, .... 524 
 
 Tennyson, 578 
 
 Cou-per 158 
 
 E. I). I'roctor, ... 446 
 
 Milton, 378 
 
 Trench 606 
 
 Sargent 471 
 
 Buchanan, 807 
 
 Hopkins, 829 
 
 Wordsicorth, .... 676 
 
 T. B. Aid rich, ... 12 
 
 Prentice 847 
 
 S. H. Pal f re I/, ... 847 
 
 S. T. Coleridge, ... 140 
 
 Stonj, 543 
 
 If. Morris, .... 390 
 
 Preston, 435 
 
 Sipnonds, 560 
 
 E. D. Proctor, ... 447 
 
 E. B. Browning, . . 60 
 
 Hai/ne, 257 
 
 Uriimmond, .... 198 
 
 r. Campbell, .... 114 
 
 Gilder, 233 
 
 Landor, 327 
 
 Tapper 620 
 
 Lai(/hton, 324 
 
 Moore, 386 
 
 Pof/ers, 464 
 
 Ecii/, 222 
 
 Bennett 38 
 
 If. ir. Lonr/fellow, . . 345 
 
 Hau, ..'.".... 254 
 
 A. 'Bronte', 53 
 
 Eabcr, 216 
 
 Chiitterton, .... 810 
 
 Dickens, 187 
 
 J. T. Fields, .... 226 
 
 Webster, 631 
 
 Mackag, 365 
 
 Bnian't, 72 
 
 W'illiams, 650 
 
 Spoiford, 531 
 
 llon-e 200 
 
 Thomson, 596 
 
 A]iphton, 19 
 
 Beottie, 34 
 
 Gilder 231 
 
 Uoqers, 461 
 
 Faber, 216 
 
 Blunt 802 
 
 Burbidoe 808 
 
 S. M. B. Piatt, . . . 421 
 
872 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 Oh, Life, I breathe thee in the breeze, Bryant, . . 
 
 Oh, listen to the howling sea, Curtis, . . 
 
 Oh, long the weary vigils since you left me — . . . . Moid ton, . 
 
 Oh, many are the poets that are sown, U'ordsicorth, 
 
 Oh, miserable comfort ! Loss is loss, Tnntch, . . 
 
 Oh ! nature's noblest gift— my gray goose-quill, . . . JJi/ron, . . 
 
 Oh ! never did a mighty truth prevail, ....... Talfourd, . 
 
 Oh ! not in strange portentous way Cootidge, . 
 
 O hour of all hours, the most blessed upon earth, . . . It. B. Lytton, . 
 
 Oh ! say can you see by the dawn's early light, .... Key, . . . 
 
 Oh, the broom, the yellow broom ! .'....... M. How'itt, . 
 
 Oh, the earth and the air ! McKay, . . 
 
 Oh, the green things growing, Crailc, . . 
 
 Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart, Moore. . . 
 
 Oh, the soul-liaunting shadows, J. T. Fields, 
 
 Oh ! the ^\orld gives little of love or light, E. Cook, 
 
 Oh, to be back in the cool summer shadow, P. Cary, 
 
 Oh ! watch you well by daylight, . Loiter, . . 
 
 Oh ! welcome, Bniliie, . . 
 
 Oh, what shall I do, dear, Clemmcr, . 
 
 Oh ! when 'tis summer weather, Boivlcs, . . 
 
 "Oh, where hae ye been, my ain Johnnie?" .... Ome, . . . 
 
 Oh, who Cabul's sweet region may behold Micliell, 
 
 Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame, Baillie, . . 
 
 Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? . . . Kno.r, . . 
 
 Oh, yet we trust that, somehow, good, Tennyson, . 
 
 Oh ! yield not, thou sad one, to sighs, Lover, . . 
 
 O lassie ayont the hill ! Macdonald, 
 
 Old frienils and dear ! it were ungentle rhyme, . . . . H. H. Browned, 
 
 Old house, how desolate thy life ! Hiram llich. 
 
 Old neighbor, for how many a year, Spofford, 
 
 O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Addison. 
 
 O little feet ! that such long years, H. W. Longfellon 
 
 love, come back, across tlie weary way, Marston, . 
 
 O Love Divine, that stoopedst to share Holmes, . . 
 
 O lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best ! . . . Allini/lutm, 
 
 O loving God of Nature ! . . . Miller, . . 
 
 " O Mary, go and call the cattle home, Kinqslei/, . 
 
 O may Ijoin the choir invisible, G. Eliot. 
 
 O Memory ! thou fond deceiver, Goldsmith, 
 
 O mystic, mighty flower whose frail white leaves, . . Barr, . . 
 
 One adequate support irordsworth. 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past, Montgomery, 
 
 Once, looking from a window on a land Gilder, . . 
 
 Once on a time the days of the week, CrancJi, . . 
 
 Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, .... Hmcells, 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, Poe, . . . 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing . ... A. A. Procter, 
 
 One more unfortunate, Hood, . . 
 
 One reads to me JIacaulay's "Lays," ....... Gusiafson. . 
 
 One sujnmer day, when liirds flew high, M. M. Bodge, 
 
 One sweetly solemn thouiiht P. Cary, 
 
 One word is too often profaned .Shellei/.'. . 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low, Campbell, . 
 
 Only a little child, Haqeman, . 
 
 Only a tender little thing, Spofford, . 
 
 Only waiting till the shadows, Mace, . . 
 
 On the cross-beam under the Old South bell, .... If'illi's, . . 
 
 On the eighth day of jNIaroh it was, some people say, . Lover, . . 
 
 On the Kialto Bridge we stand ; Howells, 
 
 On the iJiiihi Kulm we stood, Holland, 
 
 On the Salibath-day A.Smith, . 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake ! Perciral, . 
 
 On what foundations stands the warrior's pride, . . . S.Johnson, 
 
 Open the gates of the Temple ; Mace, . . 
 
 O pilgrim, comes the night so fast? Thaxter, . 
 
 O popular applause ! wluit heart of man, Cowper, . . 
 
 O reader ! hast thou ever stood to see, 11. Southey, 
 
 O Science, whose footsteps wander, Fawcett, 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 873 
 
 O sleep ! it is a gentle thing, . . ...... 
 
 O sovereign Master ! stern and splendid power, 
 O still, white face of perfect peace, .... 
 
 O tenderly the hiiughty day 
 
 O the generations old, 
 
 O the splendor of the city, 
 
 O Thou, bv Nature taught, ....... 
 
 O Thou, great Friend to all the sons of men, 
 
 O Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear ! . . 
 
 O Time ! who know'st a lenient hand to lay, . 
 
 O treacherous conscience ! while she seems to sleep, 
 
 O trifling tasks so often done . 
 
 Our birth is hut asleep and a forgetting, . . 
 Our Fatherland ! and woukVst thou know, . 
 Our funeral tears from different causes rise, , 
 
 Our (iod is all we boast below 
 
 Our life is nothing but a winter's day ; . . . 
 Our life is twofold ! Sleep hath its own world, 
 Our old brown homestead reared its walls, . 
 Our old colonial town is new with May : . . 
 Our revels now are ended ; these our actors, 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass, . . . 
 
 Out of the deep.'i of heaven, 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire, .... 
 Out of the thousand verses you have writ, 
 Outside the mad sea ravens for its prey — . . 
 
 Out upon it ! 1 have loved, 
 
 Over my window the ivy climbs, ..... 
 
 O weathercock on the village spire 
 
 O winter, wilt thou never, never go ? . . . . 
 
 O world 
 
 O ye tears ! O ye tears ! that have long refused to flow, 
 
 O ye uncrowned but kingly kings 
 
 O youth of the world, 
 
 S. T. Coleridge 
 Tha.Tfer, . . 
 J). JL Ooodale, 
 
 Emerson, . . 
 J. G. WhUtier, 
 E. D. Proctor, 
 W. Collins, 
 Parker, , . . 
 Moore, . . . 
 Bowles, . . . 
 E. Yoiurg, . . 
 Allen, . . . 
 Woi'clsworth, . 
 Lover, . . . 
 E. Younf/, . . 
 Goldsmith, 
 Quarles, . . 
 Byron, . . . 
 P. Cary, . . 
 Ahhey, . . . 
 Slidkespeare, . 
 K. P. Osgood, 
 iStoddart/, . . 
 Ticliwr, . . 
 T. B. Aldrich. 
 Movlton, . . 
 Slid:! in f/, . . 
 M. M. Dvdqe 
 H. W. Loniife. 
 
 D. Gruji, ' . . 
 
 E. B. linncning, 
 MucLinj, . . 
 Aiken, . . . 
 A. Fields, . . 
 
 lloiv. 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcome day, . . 
 Paddy I\IcCabe was dying one day, . . . 
 
 Pain and pleasure both decay, 
 
 Pain is no longer pain when it is past, . . 
 
 Pardon the faults in me, 
 
 Passionate, stormy ocean, 
 
 Passions are likened best to floods, . . . 
 Pause not to dream of the future before us, 
 Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, . . . 
 Persia ! time-honored land ! who looks on thee, 
 Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasiu-es seem ; 
 Poet, whose sunny span of fruitful years, . . 
 
 Poor lone Hannah, 
 
 Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, . . 
 Poor, withered face, that yet was once so fair, 
 
 Praver is the soul's sincere desire, 
 
 " Pray, what do they do at the Springs ?" . . 
 Press on ! there's no such word as fail ! . . 
 Princes ! and you most valorous, .... 
 Prouil mountain giant, whose majestic face, . 
 Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control, . 
 Purple, the passionate color, ...... 
 
 Heytvood, ..... 268 
 
 Lover, 748 
 
 Stoddard 542 
 
 Preston, 435 
 
 C. G. Possctti, . . . 466 
 
 Hopkins, 828 
 
 Paleiqh, 452 
 
 F. S.' Osgood, ... 402 
 
 Tenmison, .575 
 
 Mich'ell, 370 
 
 Blanchard, .... 801 
 
 Bunner 807 
 
 Larcom, 320 
 
 Shakespeare, .... 489 
 
 G. P. Luthrop, ... 336 
 Montgomery, .... 383 
 
 Saxe 776 
 
 Benjamin 799 
 
 Dobson, .190 
 
 Boker, 43 
 
 Kemnan, 396 
 
 F. Smith, 508 
 
 Quaint blossoms with the old fantastic name. 
 Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, . . . 
 
 Jackson 832 
 
 Jonson, 310 
 
 Pat-tat it went upon the lion's chin, . . 
 
 Rattle the window, winds, . 
 
 Ked leaf, gold leaf 
 
 Remember Him, the only One 
 
 Remember me when I am gone away, . . 
 " Repine not, O my sou ! " the old man replied, 
 
 Hnod, . . . 
 
 . . 738 
 
 
 . . .541 
 
 Huti'hinson. . 
 
 . . 830 
 
 Lnrjririis, . . 
 
 . . 338 
 
 C. G. Hossetti, 
 
 . . 465 
 
 Jl. Southeij, . 
 
 . . 516 
 
874 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 Restless forms of living light, 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 
 Rivers that roll most musical in song, 
 
 Sacred and secret hand ! 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
 
 Sad is the thought of sunniest days, 
 
 Saint Augustine ! well hast thou said, 
 
 Sauntering hither on listless wings 
 
 Say over again and yet once over again, 
 
 Say, why are beauties jn-aised and honored most, . . . 
 
 Say why was man so eminently raised, 
 
 Say, ye opprest by some fantastic woes, 
 
 Scarce had the earliest ray from Chinon's towers, . . 
 Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, . . . 
 Sea-king's daughter from over the sea, ....... 
 
 Seated one day at the organ 
 
 See how the orient dew, 
 
 Seek not to walk by borrowed light, 
 
 See you yonder castle stately ? 
 
 Send down Thy winged angel, God ! 
 
 September waves his golden-rod, 
 
 Serve God and be cheerful. The motto 
 
 Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pall, . . 
 She did not sigh for death, nor make sad moan, . . . 
 
 She i)ose, 
 
 The world goes up and the world goes down 
 
 The world is still deceived with ornament, 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, .... 
 The wretch condemned with life to part, ••.... 
 
 The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, 
 
 They are all goiie into the world of light, 
 
 They come ! tlie merry summer months of beauty, song, 
 
 and flowei's 
 
 The years have linings just as goblets do : 
 
 They sat and combed their beautiful hair 
 
 They seemed to those who saw them meet, 
 
 They sin who tell us love can die, 
 
 They told me in my earlier years 
 
 They wait all day unseen by us, unfelt ; 
 
 Tliey whose hearts are whole and strong 
 
 Think not some knowledge rests with thee alone, . . . 
 Think not your duty done wlien, sad and tearful, . . . 
 
 This child, so lovely and cherub-like, 
 
 This circulating principle of life 
 
 Tliis is Goethe, with a forehead, 
 
 This is that hill of awe, 
 
 This is where the roses grew, 
 
 This man whose homely face ynu look upon, 
 
 This name of mine the "sun may steal away, 
 
 Tliis only grant me, that my means may lie, 
 
 This sweet child that hath climbed upon my knee, . . 
 This tempest sweeps the Atlantic ! — Nevasink, . . . 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
 
 Those we love truly never die, 
 
 '■ Thou and 1 ! " 
 
 Thou art not dead ; thou art not gone to dust ; . . . . 
 
 Tliou art, O God ! the life and light, 
 
 Thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
 
 Thou, Bavaria's bro\\n-eyed daughter, 
 
 Thou blossom bright with Autumn dew, 
 
 Thou dear, misunderstood, maligned Delay, 
 
 Tliou first, l)est friend that heaven assigns below, . . . 
 
 ThouLili absent long 
 
 Till ■ugh Reason through Faith's mysteries see, . . . . 
 
 Thouglit is deeper than all speech, 
 
 Though wronged, not harsh my answer ! 
 
 Thougli you should come again to-morrow 
 
 Thou goest : to what distant place, 
 
 Thou happy, happy elf ! 
 
 Thou hast sworn by thy (iod, my Jeanie, 
 
 Thou knowest, O my Father ! Why should I, .... 
 
 Thou ling'ring star,' with less'niiig ray, 
 
 Thou lone companion of the spectred night 
 
 Thou miglilier than Manoah's son, ........ 
 
 Thou Shalt have sun and shower from heaven above, . 
 
 Tliou unrelenting Past ! 
 
 Thou whose birth on earth, 
 
 Three fishers went sailing away to the West 
 
 Tliree, only three, my darling 
 
 Three poets in three distant ages born, 
 
 Three roses, wan as moonlight and weighed down, . . 
 Tliree weeks to-day had old Doctor Drollhead, .... 
 
 Q'hrough her forced, abnormal quiet, 
 
 Through love to light ! Oh, wonderful the way, . . . 
 
 Through the dark path, o'er which I tread, 
 
 Thus doth beauty dwell, 
 
 Thus is it over all the earth ! 
 
 Thy bright brief day knew no decline— 
 
 Thaxfer, 587 
 
 Symonds 559 
 
 E. D. Proctor, ... 448 
 
 Lantlor, 743 
 
 Brine, 806 
 
 Winter, C62 
 
 Kinfisley. .'521 
 
 Sluikfifpeari' 485 
 
 Jf '(ird.twort/i, .... ()75 
 
 Goldsmith, .... 237 
 
 I'ierpont, 764 
 
 J'au(/han, 621 
 
 Motherwell, .... 304 
 
 C. F. Bates 31 
 
 Perni 414 
 
 Lord Houqhton, ... 288 
 
 P. Soulhe'y, .... 517 
 
 E. Cook 150 
 
 iM. M. Dodge, .... 192 
 
 Larcom, ,333 
 
 jr/iieler, 633 
 
 Piieliardmn 4.58 
 
 Poi/vrs, 461 
 
 Sir H. Tai/lor, ... 570 
 
 ir. A. Butler, ... 88 
 
 Bret Harte, .... 252 
 
 Allen, 15 
 
 Stoddard, 540 
 
 G. Houghton, .... 285 
 
 Cowley, 1.55 
 
 Pealf, 457 
 
 Simmit 503 
 
 Moore .387 
 
 J. B. O'Peilhi, ... 400 
 
 Tilton, ..'.... 599 
 
 B. Taylor, 567 
 
 Moore, 387 
 
 Wordsu-orth 667 
 
 B. Taylor, 569 
 
 Bri/ant, 77 
 
 Sa'xton, 852 
 
 Pofjers 403 
 
 Wordsworth, .... 666 
 
 Cou'ley, 156 
 
 Cranch, 175 
 
 Simms, ...... 503 
 
 S. T. Coleridge, ... 710 
 
 Si/monds, 559 
 
 liood, 734 
 
 Cunningham, .... 179 
 
 J. C. R". Dorr, ... 195 
 
 Biirns 82 
 
 Wolcot, 664 
 
 Tupper 616 
 
 Stedman 539 
 
 Bryant 73 
 
 Swinhurne, .... 556 
 
 Kingsley, 321 
 
 Holme, 276 
 
 Dry den, 204 
 
 T. B. Aldrich, ... 10 
 
 Anonymous 796 
 
 Halpme, 726 
 
 Gilder 233 
 
 Boker, 804 
 
 Akenside 7 
 
 Holland, 273 
 
 Moir, 381 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 879 
 
 Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright, Blake, . . 
 
 Till the slow davliglit pale, Greenwell, . 
 
 Time, hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, ShaLt'sjyeare, 
 
 Time] in advance, behind him hides his wings, , . . . E. Young, . 
 
 Tincture or svrup, lotion, drop, or pill, Crahhc, . . 
 
 Tired of play"! tired of play ! JFil/is, . . 
 
 'Tis a fearfvil night in the winter time, Eastman, . 
 
 'Tis all a great show f"«7/. • • • 
 
 'Tis a story told bv Kalidasa, — Bostiricl; . 
 
 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours ;....£'. Youii;/, . 
 
 'Tis not stringing rhymes together, Hanri/al, . 
 
 'Tis said that when the nightingale Jiobcrtgon, . 
 
 'Tis self whereby we suffer, Symoiids, . 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet, S. T. Coleridge, 
 
 'Tis the part of a coward to brood, Hayne, . . 
 
 'Tis time this heai-t should be unmoved, ...... Byron, . . 
 
 Titan ! to whose immortal eyes, Byron, . . 
 
 To be, or not to be, that is the question, — SliaLexpeare, 
 
 To-dav the sunshine freely showers, Prescotf, . 
 
 To him who, in the love of Kature holds, Bryant, . . . 
 
 Toiling across the Mer de Glace, T. B. Aldrich, 
 
 Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train Stgourney, 
 
 Too late I stayed — forgive the crime — ...... Spencer, . . 
 
 To learning's second seats we now proceed Crabbe, . . 
 
 Toll, tower and minster, toll, H. H. Brovnell, 
 
 To Love in my heart, 1 exclaimed, t'other morning, . . Ca^nphell, 
 
 To miry places me the hunters drive, Trench, . 
 
 To-morrow has trouble to lend, Kimball, 
 
 To Thee, fair Freedom, 1 retire SJienstone, 
 
 Touch us gently. Time, B. W. Procter, 
 
 To you, my purse, and to none other wight Chancer, 
 
 Tread lightly, she is near, . . . ■ O. Wilde. 
 
 Tread softlv! bow the head— C. B. Sonthey, 
 
 Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky, Campbell, . 
 
 True A\it is nature to advantage th-essed, Pope. . . . 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, iJryden, . . 
 
 'Twas August, and the tierce sun overhead, M. Arnold, 
 
 'Twas in .tune"s bright and glowing prime, ..... Street, . . 
 
 'Twas May ! the spring with magic bloom Street. . . 
 
 'Twas the last tight at Fredericksburg, — Gassaway,. 
 
 Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, H. W. Longfelloic, 
 
 Two children, in two neighbor villages Tennyson, 
 
 Two hands upon the breast, Craih\ . 
 
 Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, .... Byrom, . 
 
 Two maidens listening to the sea — Webster, 
 
 Two things love can do, Phelps, . 
 
 Two travellers of conceited cast, Merrick, 
 
 Tying her bonnet under her chin, Perry, . 
 
 Under the coffin-lid there are roses : . . . . 
 
 Under the lindens lately sat, 
 
 Unfading Hope ! when "life's last embers burn. 
 Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are years, . 
 Uidike those feeble gales of praise, .... 
 Unusual darkness broods ; and growing, gains. 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn, . . . 
 Up from the south at break of day, .... 
 
 Upon the sadness of the sea 
 
 Upon the white sea sand, 
 
 Venomous thorns that are so sharp and keen, 
 
 S. M. B. Piatt, 
 
 Landor, . 
 Campbell, 
 Shelley, . 
 Moore, . 
 Thomson, 
 J. G. Whittier, 
 Bead, . 
 Thaxter, 
 Brotcn, . 
 
 Wyatt, . 
 
 A'erily the fancy may be false, Tapper, 
 
 Verse, a breeze, mid blossoms straying, S. T.Coleridge, 
 
 Victoria's sceptre o'er the deep, Campbell , 
 
 Virtue, forever frail, as fair, below, E. Yinnig, 
 
 Virtue ! without thee, Thomson, 
 
 Wall, no ! I can't tell whar he lives Hay, . . 
 
 Wanton droll, whose harmless play, Baillie, . 
 
880 
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 Want passed for merit at her open door : 
 
 Was this the singer 1 had heard so long? 
 
 Waters al)ove ! eternal springs ! 
 
 We are all here \ 
 
 We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon ; . . . 
 
 We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 
 
 We are ever waiting, waiting, 
 
 We are face to face, and between us here, 
 
 We are living — we are dwelling, . 
 
 We are not always equal to our fate 
 
 We are the sweet flowers, 
 
 We are two travellers, Koger and I, 
 
 We are wrong always, when we think too much, . . . 
 
 Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
 
 We count the broken lyres that rest, 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped liower, 
 
 Weep not for me ; — 
 
 We have been friends together, 
 
 We indeed have heard, 
 
 Welcome, silence ! welcome! peace ! 
 
 We light on fruits and flowers, and purest things : . . 
 We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breath ; . 
 
 We live not in our moments or our years, 
 
 Well, I confess, ] did ni>t guess 
 
 Well might red slianie my cheek consume ! 
 
 We may not choose ! 
 
 We merry three, . • . . ■ 
 
 We must have doves and serpents in our heart ! . . . 
 
 We're all alone, we're all alone ! 
 
 Were I at Petra, could I not declare, 
 
 Werther had a love for Charlotte, 
 
 We sat by tlie olioerless fireside, 
 
 We should fill the liours with the sweetest things, . . 
 
 We that were friends, yet are not now, 
 
 We two have grown up so tiivinely together, 
 
 We walk alone through all life's various ways, . . . . 
 We watched her breathing through the niglit, . . . . 
 
 We were not many, — we who stood, 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine ? 
 
 What! and not one to heave the pious sigh? 
 
 What a time since 1 wrote ! — I'm a sad, naughty girl, . 
 What could tliey be but ha[)py ? balanced so, ... . 
 
 Wliat frightens you thus, my good son ? 
 
 AVhat hcartaclie, — ne'er a hill * 
 
 What if tlu; foot, ordained the dust to tread, 
 
 Wliat is hope? A smiling rainbow, 
 
 AVhat is it tliat doth spoil tlie fair adorning, 
 
 What is the dearest happiness of heaven? 
 
 What is the little one flunking about? 
 
 What lies beyond the fair horizon's rim? 
 
 What love do 1 bring you? 
 
 What makes a hero ? not success, not fame, 
 
 What man can hear sweet sounds and dread to die ? 
 What man is he that boasts of fleshly might, . . . . 
 
 Wliat memory fired lier pallid face, 
 
 " W'liat need lias tlie singer to sing?" 
 
 Wliat sliall 1 do Willi all the days and hours, 
 
 " What shall 1 sing?" I sighed, and said 
 
 What's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod, 
 
 What sounds arouse me from my slumbers light?. . . 
 
 Wliat though I sing no other song? 
 
 AVhal thou-h not all 
 
 What though sliorl thy date! 
 
 Wliat though the i-hilly wide-mouthed quacking, . . . 
 
 What thought is folded in thy leaves ! 
 
 What to do to make thy fame, 
 
 What wak'st tliou, Spring? Sweet voices in the woods. 
 
 What war so cruel, or what siege so sore, 
 
 What was 1 cannot tell — Ikou kuow'st our story, . . . 
 
 Dry den, 206 
 
 Crancli, 173 
 
 J'aw/lian, 624 
 
 Spragnc 533 
 
 Hhcllcij, 495 
 
 B. W. Procti')\ ... 444 
 
 C. IJ. IV. Browndl, . CO 
 
 P. Cary, 123 
 
 Coxe, 816 
 
 Simmn 502 
 
 Hunt 299 
 
 Troifbridge, .... 786 
 
 E. Ji. />n)wning, . . (56 
 
 Arnold, 25 
 
 Holmes, 276 
 
 Burns, 83 
 
 Newman, 396 
 
 Norton, 398 
 
 Crabbe, 163 
 
 Bloom/ield, .... 42 
 
 Trench, 605 
 
 r. J. Bailey, .... 26 
 
 Trench, 005 
 
 Hood, 737 
 
 Trowbridge, .... 612 
 
 JacL-soii, 830 
 
 MacLay, 756 
 
 Quarle's, 451 
 
 ,Spofford, .530 
 
 Tapper, 619 
 
 ThncLeray, .... 783 
 
 Stoddiird, 542 
 
 Dickinson, 188 
 
 Lord Howjhton, ... 288 
 
 Trowbridije, .... 613 
 
 E. Gray, 240 
 
 Hood, 281 
 
 Hoffman, 270 
 
 Blamire, 40 
 
 n. Soatheij, .... 519 
 
 Moore, 760 
 
 J!. Browning, .... 71 
 
 M. Prior, 774 
 
 Lanier 328 
 
 Pope 430 
 
 Carh/le, 119 
 
 A. Van/ 122 
 
 Coolidqe, 813 
 
 Holland 272 
 
 Jennison, 833 
 
 Spofford 531 
 
 air H. Tail lor, ... 571 
 
 A. T. De i'ere, ... 186 
 
 E. Spenser 528 
 
 Spofford 529 
 
 J. ('. /!. Dorr, . . . 194 
 
 Kemble 317 
 
 J. J. Piatt, .... 418 
 
 Campbell, 108 
 
 Sarqent, 471 
 
 Winter 661 
 
 Akensidc, 6 
 
 E. Younq, 683 
 
 S. T. Coierid(/e, ... 710 
 
 T. B. Aldrich, ... 11 
 
 Mack at/, 365 
 
 Hemans 260 
 
 E. Spenser 525 
 
 Howe 28» 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 
 
 881 
 
 What, what is virtue, but repose of miiul, 
 
 What wondrous power from heaven upon thee wrought '. 
 What would I save thee from, dear heart ! . . 
 What would life keep for me if thou should'st go 
 
 When at eve 1 sit alone, 
 
 When beeches brighten early May, . . , . . 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, . . 
 When brooks of summer shallow run, .... 
 
 When by the evening's quiet light, 
 
 When chance or cruel business parts us two, . 
 When chapman billies leave the street, . . . 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay, . . . 
 
 Whene'er with haggard eyes 1 view, 
 
 When eve is purpling cliff and cave, 
 
 When first 1 looked into thy glorious eyes, . . 
 When first religion came to bless the land, . . 
 When first the bride and bridegroom wed, . . 
 When first the soul of love is sent abroad, . . 
 When first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave. 
 When freedom from her mountain height, . . 
 When, from the sacred garden driven, .... 
 
 When God at first made man, 
 
 When I am dead, my dearest, 
 
 When I am turned to mouldering dust, .... 
 When I behold what pleasure is Pursuit, . . . 
 When I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, 
 When I consider how my light is spent, . . . 
 When 1 have fears that I may cease to be, . . 
 When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, 
 When I shall be divorced, some ten years hence. 
 
 When I shall go, 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 
 
 When 1 was dead, my spirit turned, 
 
 When last the maple bud was swelling, . . . 
 
 When love is in her eyes, 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die, 
 
 When May, with cowslip-braided locks, . . . 
 
 When men in health against yhysicians rail. 
 
 When Music, heavenly maid, was young. . . . 
 
 When once thy foot enters the church, be bare, 
 
 When some proud son of man returns to earth. 
 
 When the drum of sickness beats, 
 
 When the lessons and tasks are all ended, . . 
 
 When the rose is brightest 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld, 
 
 When the stern genius, to whose hollow tramp. 
 
 When to any saint 1 pray, 
 
 When to soft Sleep we give ourselves away, . . 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, . 
 
 Where are you, Sylvia, where ? 
 
 Where did you come from, baby dear? . . . . 
 
 Where honeysuckles scent the way, 
 
 Where is the dust that has not been alive? . . 
 
 Where is thy favored haunt, eternal voice, . . 
 
 Where now the rill, melo.oyc8JLo\A9. 
 
X'S' '/L- 
 
 76 
 
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